


Frost Flowering

by IoG



Series: Frost Flowering [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Do you ever watch costume dramas and feel horrified about the way the women are treated, F/M, I have so many feelings about how women are treated in Westeros, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Sansa/Happiness OTP, then remember that they are (usually) the high status women, who had it comparatively better than all the people whose stories aren’t even told?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-15 15:42:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 76,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9242408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IoG/pseuds/IoG
Summary: In a world where the Seven Kingdoms fall apart less catastrophically and leave prejudices standing, old and new, Sansa must make her path through the newly independent North and the Six Kingdoms.





	1. Ser Brynden

**Author's Note:**

> The discussion of the sexual and physical violence Sansa experienced in King's Landing will not be explicit. I do not intend to provide much greater detail than was in this initial chapter (which is much less than would be in the original text/tv show). I want this story to be about Sansa's own emotional journey, not Joffrey getting high off of inflicting pain.
> 
> This is not a single event canon divergence story, but instead reflects a world where, after the events in the books and show begin, a number of actors make different decisions, big and small, which lead to an independent North under King Robb, first of his name. I have attempted to keep these changes as believable possibilities within the confines of the broader story, but of course may have been a bit off. I now understand why these books take GRRM so long.
> 
> This is based on a mix of the books and the show because, for the most part, I can’t honestly remember which is which, and sadly don’t have time for a full re-read or binge watch. (For those playing along at home, the character’s ages are based on the show while Tyrells are more closely modeled on the book versions.)
> 
> I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire or Game of Thrones, but am simply playing in the sandbox with a derivative work for fun, not monetary gain.

A part of him wanted to think this was a victory, but he was too old now to engage in such self-delusions. It wasn’t like before. After the Rebellion he really thought that maybe they’d made a difference, that perhaps the Seven Kingdoms would be stronger without the Targaryens and their madness, but now that the Seven Kingdoms were Six, well, Five really as bringing the Iron Islands to heel was a work in progress, he knew that perhaps life would become incrementally better, but this was no true victory.

He watched the host approach from the South, one horse in particular. He’d heard she looked like Little Cat. He’d see soon. Cat was gone now, her bones held by the Greyjoys, and all that remained were her children.

The horse grew closer, but he still couldn’t see her. He tamped down the instinct built on so many battlefields to draw his sword as he gazed on the lion and stag banners. Technically, these were the banners of his King. He’d been proud to kneel before Cat’s boy, but when the winter started to blow, wins on the battlefield had demoralized the Lannisters and threatened the Westerlands, and their Reachmen allies refused forces for any war not focused on Stannis or the Ironborn, a peace had been reached. The victories had been enough to cleave the North from Seven Kingdoms – the North had never really followed the Seven – but the Riverlands’ long indefensible border left them ceded back to King’s Landing, albeit with a number of concessions. Only a total victory could have freed the Trident, and he supposed, he’d never really seen one in his many years and fights. 

Now one such concession had arrived. Those accompanying her dismounted, and helped her down from the horse. She did look like Cat. She looked like she had reached her home.

“Princess Sansa, welcome to Riverrun.”

“Thank you Ser Brynden. It is an honor and pleasure to meet you. I only wish Mother was here to introduce us. She always spoke so highly of you.”

The pleasantries were dispatched with, as were the guards who had brought her to Riverrun. He would deliver her above the Neck, where Winterfell men would take her North. He felt his shoulders relax slightly as the horses turned away. They did not ask for guest rights, but immediately departed. Perhaps Tywin was aware quite how much the Trident remained a tinderbox, as if the river were wildfire.

He took her in to meet her uncle, who was still recuperating from wounds earned bravely, if surprisingly on the battlefield, and saw her to her rooms where she began to settle into her two week respite in her mother’s home.

He couldn’t help thinking how much she looked like Cat. He could just close his eyes and see her telling him about her betrothed, Brandon, and her excitement. Her daughter looked like she fit here, he almost didn’t want to take her away in a fortnight. What ruined the fleeting illusion was her dress. It was stretched tight across her bosom and hung several inches too high off the floor. She looked half-woman and half-child, stranded between the two, and unkept in a way that was nothing like the Cat who had grown up cradled in the arms of this castle.

She’d had no household in King’s Landing – not after the Lannisters had killed the Northmen who accompanied her father – and the room was quiet without the chatter of ladies and maids. Several of the staff from Riverrun would see to her, but they were busy in the bedroom. He let her break the silence.

“Ser Brynden,” she said as her eyes wandered around the solar. “Do we have plans for the remainder of the day?”

“Just a dinner. We suspected you would be tired after your journey.”

“Indeed. In that case, would you accompany me to the sept? Mother always spoke of it, and I would like to pray for her here.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he said, and offered her his arm. She walked gingerly. She must be deeply sore from the long journey.

They prayed in the sept for an hour. He offered his usual supplications before the marble visages of the Father, Warrior, and Smith. His grand niece instead began before the Stranger, then knelt before the Mother, and finally the Chrone. She was silent the entire time. As they emerged from the sept, she turned to him.

“Could you lead me to the Maester?”

“Of course.”

As they walked he told her stories of Cat, Lysa, and Edmure as children. He watched her carefully. He doubted the Lannisters would have let her ride often, while she was a hostage in King’s Landing. To go from being cloistered in the Red Keep to the hard driving journey a month after the peace was set and the armies journeyed home must have been difficult for the young woman.

They arrived at the Maester’s quarters and he provided introductions. Maester Prior directed her to sit, and he took up a position in a corner. She looked to him questioningly.

“Your brother made me promise not to let you leave my sight so long as you were in the South.”

He wouldn’t break his promise to the man who was his King, even if he did not reign in this land any longer. Besides, he wouldn’t put it past the mad King in the Red Keep to try to have her killed. He was not a man – boy – known for well thought out action. His execution of Ned had set the tone for his rule, and her death could destabilize the fragile peace.

She nodded, wordlessly, and continued to sit motionless for several moments. Finally, she took a deep breath, leveled a gaze at the Maester, and asked, “Could you please check if I am with child?”

He felt a warm flush of fear course through his body. 

“Why do you believe you might be with child?” Maester Prior asked, evenly. He envied that control. 

“My moonblood has not arrived in many weeks.”

“A child requires actions, not merely time.”

“I am not a maid.” She said this as if by rote.

“When did you last…couple?” Maester Prior continued.

“About seven weeks ago.” Seven. Seven, he thought again. Seven would have been after the treating. 

She looked to her hands, clasped in her lap, and then returned her gaze to the Maester, studiously ignoring his presence in the corner. “King Joffrey was disappointed by the break of our betrothal, and thought to take what he was owed.”

“Was that the only time?”

“I believe once my maidenhead was gone, the action lost some of its appeal.”

The Maester asked after her stomach, which was unsettled, but no different than how it had sat for months. He continued, questioning whether her bosom was tender to the touch, and found it was not. He asked if she had been especially tired or if she had felt a backache, but she did not know. 

“The ride to Riverrun was rather challenging.” She dissembled.

The Maester frowned, and asked if she would allow him to examine her without her dress. She consented with a swift nod and her fingers went to her laces. They nimbly loosened the tie and outer wrap fell away, leaving only a thin linen shift. The Maester asked her to turn away from the door and stepped around to her front. Maester Prior lifted the shift and felt her midsection.

With her back to him, he stared at the cloth canvas before him. It had been rent and repaired, with several horizontal slashes closed with careful stitches. Brown dots and dashes of blood looked like the remnants of ink from a copyist with a heavy hand. 

He felt as if he had mother’s stomach himself.

Maester Prior lowered the shift and gestured for her to turn. The Maester paused, then returned to his earlier seat.

“I do not believe you are with child. It is not uncommon for women recently flowered to have their moonblood irregularly, particularly during times of stress. It is too late for moon tea. I would watch for your moonblood. If it does not appear, be sure to inform Winterfell’s Maester on your return.”

“I will,” she intoned, and briefly closed her eyes, as if in prayer.

“Might I also see to your back, and any hurts from the journey?”

The Maester continued, probing, and unwrapped a covering on her back. He went to an armoire and withdrew a small bottle of salve. She seemed only half cognizant of his ministrations, but when complete, thanked Maester Prior with all the appropriate courtesies. 

He escorted her back to her rooms and, unlike their prior trip, said little. Each walked with their own thoughts. Once they returned to the rooms empty and still, he spoke.

“If you take up riding and become known for the pursuit, my Princess, no one need know. It is not uncommon for highborn ladies to be good horsewomen, especially in a land as vast as the North, and many a maidenhead has been lost to a saddle.”

“Thank you for your wise counsel, Ser Brynden, but I’m afraid that will not be a solution in this situation, even if I am not with child. You see, King Joffrey declared his intentions to the court upon hearing the terms of the peace, and informed them after the deed that while the North was gone from the Seven Kingdoms, so too was the North’s virtue.”


	2. Sansa

They waited in an inn north of the Neck for Robb’s men to arrive. Its bright red door seemed beacon to weary travelers who’d made it through the muck to the clear air of the Northern Kingdom. She hoped it would make it easier to the Winterfell men to find. She felt like she had been waiting for Robb’s men to arrive for years, and in many ways she had. When she was a little girl playing maidens and monsters with Robb and Jon, she hadn’t expected that being rescued would have required so many days riding.

They’d rode from Riverrun, paying the toll at the Twins to cross the Green Fork, then up into the swamps of the Neck. She hadn’t liked those marshlands, the reptiles, the bugs, and the heavy wet cold, but it had been better than the Freys. They had greedy eyes, and Lord Stevron Frey was an avaricious man. He had demanded a shocking amount of coin, despite the fact that they were on a journey directed by his liege lord! When she mentioned her surprise, she’d been met with laughs, and told the astronomical sum he’d extracted for Robb’s Northern army to pass on the way to rescue Father. It was almost as if the North had purchased its freedom with gold.

Uncle Brynden, as he had told her to call him, sat besides her, speaking with the accompanying knights from the Riverlands who had escorted her through the Trident and the Neck. She’d barely known the man two moons before, but she would miss him when he returned to Riverrun. He would be welcomed at Winterfell, but he intended to turn back here and assist her Uncle Edmure with the task of rebuilding and ruling the Riverlands.

She was thankful for her time at Riverrun. It was an achy pleasure to spend time surround by the castle and the people her mother had spoken of with such fondness. Ensconced in its walls, with Uncle Brynden by her side, she had finally felt a measure of safety, the first in years. 

She thanked the gods, old and new, for Maester Prior’s salves and care and Uncle Edmure and Brynden’s efforts to her outfit each time she mounted and dismounted her dappled palfrey. With only a fortnight granted to her at Riverrun she had had limited time, and war - plus the Frey’s - had diminished Tully coffers, but she had been gifted with several items to remember her short time there: a new dress, well-fitted and cut in a simple Northern style to protect its wearer from the elements from Uncle Edmure; riding boots that did not pinch her toes from Uncle Brynden; and a trunk, full of old cloaks and clothes, from, in some way, Mother. She fingered the decorative elements she recognized from her clothes as a child. Today’s dress had a pattern of raindrops and snowflakes around the hem. She wondered if her mother had made it for Uncle Brandon’s visit to Riverrun, during their courtship so long ago.

But, for all she’d enjoyed the time in her mother’s ancestral seat, and, if she was honest with herself, had needed it, she hadn’t accounted for how fast the spreading peace would reopen travel across the Kingdom – Kingdoms. Men and women were moving again, bringing their wares and gossip with them.

Everyone seemed to know.

She heard them whisper, when Uncle Brynden stood further away, heard the tavern maids and blacksmiths when they stopped.

She heard it in her mind with each clop of the horse’s hooves. 

Not a maid. Not a maid. Not a maid. Not a maid.

She heard other words: Unclean. Spoiled. Ruined.

She thought idly about what it would have been like if she had traveled directly to Winterfell before the news had time to spread. How sweet to have been within its warm walls before every man and women seemed to know her shame. She knew she couldn’t have made that journey, and that words were nothing compared to further weeks underneath lion banners. But still, she wished all of Westeros could have waited a bit longer to return to the patterns of life before the war.

The only thing that comforted her was the return of her moonblood shortly after they began their journey. She remembered how it had terrified her when it first arrived in King’s Landing. How she had feared what it meant, what Joffrey would do to her. 

In the end, he had done it anyways, and now, her moonblood brought a measure of peace. It meant there would be no baby with Joffrey’s face. She remembered Lollys, the gossip around court, and the way Lolly’s body had betrayed her before everyone during the Battle of the Blackwater. She would be spared that. No Snow of her own.

Perhaps this was how Jon felt. The way words carried extra weight when everyone knows your shame, but does not know you. Perhaps that’s why he was always so quiet. No need to talk when everyone is already speaking of you.

But, she reminded herself, words are wind, and there were other things to think with each beat of the horse.

Home. Home. Home. Home.

*

She led Rickon to his lessons and made her way to Mother’s solar. She needed to turn to the accounts.

Her first few days in Winterfell she had spent cloistered in rooms with Bran and Rickon, and Robb when he could steal away from his many responsibilities. It had delighted her, being surrounded by her family. But their proximity made each of the missing stand in ever starker relief. 

The younger boys had grown so much. She hadn’t seen Bran awake since he lay unconscious in his sickbed, when he had seemed so small and broken. Now he sat tall, and spoke with a bright new maturity. On the third day, after the confinement began to chafe for the boys – from her perspective, she didn’t think she could ever feel that way about Winterfell again – he had proudly shown her how well he could ride on the saddle designed by Lord Tyrion. 

Walking through the keep beside Bran and Walder, as Rickon ran ahead, she thought everything seemed…slightly disordered within the keep. That night, sitting on Bran’s bed, with Rickon asleep on her lap and two direwolves at her feet, she asked Bran about his time as the Stark in Winterfell. He told her about how he had adjudicated disputes and provided for the small folk. 

“I’m sure you did very well. You should be proud.” She told him.

“That’s what Robb said. King Robb.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

She thought of earlier in the day and asked, “Do you know the state of the stores?”

“The stores? No, they never came up. It was mostly disputes. Is there a problem?”

“No, no, just wondering.” She placated him. Turning to his desk she saw papers strewn about. “And your studies, have you been keeping them up?”

“Yes.” Her question was met with a groan. “Maester Luwin has repeatedly lectured me that the best thing I can do to help Robb is to become very learned, and become his advisor.” 

Bran had looked down, then over at the chair with wheels attached and said to his blanket, “Its interesting, sometimes. I like some of the stories, but mostly its memorization and repetitive. I don’t like spending everyday with the books.

“I wish I could be in Robb’s Kingsguard. Keep him safe, fight for him. I could do more there, be worth more than sitting here with old paper.”

She lifted his chin until their eyes met. “I met many of the Kingsguard in the Red Keep.” For a moment he looked his age, his eyes bright with eagerness to hear about the heroes of his childhood, then his face fell when he thought about whom they serve. She continued, “You are worth more than all of them put together. You already have more honor and wisdom than all of those foresworn and anointed knights. And, I’ve seen how a good man giving a King counsel can make a greater difference than all of the Kingsguard and their swords.” Bran looked down, refusing to meet her eyes. 

“Maester Luwin is right. Look at how well you did as the Stark in Winterfell before. The task is growing, now that the North is free, but so too is your knowledge and wisdom.” His lips twitched at that. 

“Now, I need to put this one to bed. Sleep well.” She set Rickon to the side and stood, kissing Bran’s brow, before lifting Rickon up to her shoulder. As she passed the desk, she stopped, turning to face Bran again. 

“And Rickon, is he keeping up with his studies?” 

Bran shook his head at that, sheepish. “He’s always running off, and there isn’t always someone to chase him, especially since Old Nan died.” 

“Well, I suppose that will have to change.”

The next morning she’d woken Bran and Rickon, directed them all to break fast in the Great Hall with Robb and deposited them both to Maester Luwin’s care. 

“If you should need anything, I will be in Mother’s solar.” Turning to Rickon, she added, “I look forward to hearing about what you’ve learned over supper.”

And so she had spent the last few days: reading accounts, speaking with Maester Luwin, and questioning Fergus Crane, who had stepped into cover the empty steward position.

All things being equal, Winterfell wasn’t that bad off, given the upheaval that had shaken every other facet of their lives. But, when Vanyon Poole had traveled south with Father, everyone had expected Mother to be here. Very soon she hadn’t been, and after the banners were called, other vital members of the community had departed as well. Without their steady hands, certain necessary upkeep and tasks had fallen by the wayside. That didn’t even begin to account for the added stress of feeding and housing an army, as Winterfell had done more than once, not to mention the oncoming winter.

Mother had spent many mornings sitting in this very room, with her in this very chair, drilling Arya and herself on how to be a lady of a great keep. She’d always been a diligent student, unlike Arya, but now the task seemed overwhelming.

She chastised her past self for not paying sufficient attention, especially where it came needs for winter. She’d always assumed she’d be in the South and the knowledge would be unnecessary. She stared at the empty pair of chairs as if they could provide the information their former occupants would have known. 

In some ways, though, Mother’s absence was the easier to bear. She had not been given proper rights, but the one good thing about the Ironborn is that they also return their dead to the water. Mother would have liked that. And she had recited the rights in septs from King’s Landing up to Winterfell, as if quantity and repetition could perfect their irregular nature.

But for Arya, no one knew where she way or her body lay. She prayed, wished, and hoped that Arya was alive and unharmed - but she doubted it. How could she have survived the turmoil that had engulfed Westeros? She was just a child. 

Most likely Arya had been killed in the days immediately following Father’s arrest. Her body, not laid in the crypts the way Starks ought to be, unceremoniously thrown in the Blackwater, only to be desecrated once again by the battle. Sometimes she thought about the streets of the city, especially their smell, and the feel of the hay against her hands when she’d been pushed to the ground during the riots. She thought about hands clothed in steel gauntlets and burn of sharp swords on skin. She thought about Joffrey standing at her door, the Mountain looming behind him, and imagined Arya.

She stood, now would be a good time to speak with the kitchens. 

*

She sat before the evening’s fire, making careful alterations to Mother’s gowns from Riverrun, as had become her habit. She had already cut and re-sown the sleeves to create a slimmer profile. Now she was repurposing the light blue wool to add a cowl along the neckline. She idly considered if her next project, a vibrant pink silk she would have delighted in as a child, would take dye well. Perhaps she could make it a deep purple? The fabric would be too light once winter truly arrived, but for now, winter was still coming, and she needed more dresses. Only one she had carried to King’s Landing could be worn without offending propriety and she had outgrown all of the dresses left in Winterfell. 

She had carefully packed the too small gowns, shifts, and shoes away, layering the skirts and bodices with sprigs of rosemary, just in case. 

Though, Arya had always hated the dresses that had originally been hers most of all.

“Nice snowflakes.” Robb offered, upon entering.

“Thank you, your Grace.” Robb made a bit of a face at that, but said nothing, and settled into the chair beside her. This had become their habit. Sitting together at the end of the day, several times a week. She would update him on the state of Winterfell, its environs, and Bran and Rickon. He would tell her some of frustrations of the day. He wasn’t asking for advice, so much speaking through the problems aloud, but she occasionally offered advice hard won in the court of the Red Keep.

They never spoke of anything personal. He didn’t ask how she felt or if she was faring well now that she was back at Winterfell. He never spoke of her time in King’s Landing after her first day back one moon ago, when she told him all she knew about Arya and the fate of Father, and the Northmen and women who went South with them.

Though, to be honest, what would she say if he had? Perhaps, she’d tell him, “Today, as I walked through Wintertown and reviewed the wares, I heard one woman describe me as a Lannister Whore. I didn’t mind so much, whores are paid, and I certainly received nothing from Joffrey in return for what he took. 

“No, the comment that upset me the most was that as we passed the tavern, one man turned to his companion and declared, ‘Look at the cold fish.’ His companion laughed, grabbed at his breeches, and japed, ‘We know which part of her is wet.’ 

“But I did buy excellent wool to make a new doublet to replace your forest green one - you shouldn’t wear dark green, it makes your hair stand out - so all in all, the day was a success.”

Instead, she told him about repairs they needed to make to the southern barn and how the winter preparations had progressed in the month since she had returned. 

He spoke of the deployment of forces to the Neck, and his plans for the next day. He watched her cover the cowl in snowflakes.

“We’ll be packing the next set of supplies to send to the Wall, tomorrow as well,” he stated, as if reminding himself.

“Oh, in that case I would like to include a letter for Jon.”

“Really?” he said, surprised, his blue eyes reflecting hers for what felt like the first time all evening.

“Yes, he is still at the Wall, correct?”

Some evenings it seemed he could hardly meet her gaze. 

“Unless he’s north of it. Of course, just bring the letter to me before tomorrow evening, and I’ll add it to the packet of correspondence for the Lord Commander and my letter to Jon.”

He was clearly so ashamed of her and it burned.

*

She rose early the next day, and settled in front of the mirror, instead of pausing before it to confirm her swiftly secured half braids were not askew. Her hands were slightly unsure. She had become used to ceding to the ministrations of ladies maids during her time in the Red Keep. After twisting the rope braids from her temple and connecting them at the back of her head, she gathered increasing quantities of hair in a progressive braid. She secured the base of the braid, before slipping as much as she could into an opening she created between her braid and scalp. She marveled at how the length could simply disappear. She felt the hairs on her neck rise, unused to the chill in the open air.


	3. Sansa, Robb, Bran

Summer’s arrival alerted her that there was a problem. She led the wolf to Maester Luwin and confirmed that Rickon had not arrived for afternoon lessons. Bran directed his wolf to accompany her on her quest. This was far too common an occurrence. Rickon was a decent student and swordsman when focused, but he was prone to running off on his own. He’d been without proper supervision for too long. Mother’s departure, then death, Old Nan’s decline, then death, and the stress on Winterfell of administering the North amid a successful rebellion had left little time to look after one little boy.

She paused in the yard, and then followed Summer when the wolf turned right. The wolves seemed to know how to find their siblings and where Rickon went, Shaggydog followed. Her brothers’ bonds with their wolves made her ache for Lady, and more than once she’d noticed her hand flexed at hip height, as if resting on an apparition.

Summer paused before the crypt’s doors. So that’s where Rickon was hiding.

She descended, calling out. A shuffle sounded in the corner. He was crouched by Father’s tomb. 

“Rickon, I know you are down here. You really must stop running off! Now is time for your lessons.”

“I don’t want to.”

“It isn’t a matter of want. You don’t have a choice about whether or not to go to your lessons. You simply must go. Its important that you learn what Maester Luwin is trying to teach you. You are a Prince. You must act like one.”

“No, I won’t go.”

“This non-negotiable. You must.”

“No, and you can’t make me.” He was progressively curling in on himself with each refusal.”

“Rickon,” she began again, before he interrupted her, shouting.

“You’re not my mother!”

She exhaled, and told him, “I know. I’m not trying to be Mother. I am just looking out for you.” He refused to meet her gaze, so she sat beside him. Her back rested on the stones containing Father’s bones. 

“Mother loved you. I love you. She can’t be here, but I can. I am doing my best to look after you and what you need. That’s what she would have wanted.”

“Markus, the bakers boy, said she left because she was Southron and cared more about the South than Bran and me.” Solitary angry tears were streaking down his cheeks, one by one. 

“Markus is wrong. She didn’t leave you. She went South because she had to help Robb. 

“She didn’t bring you because it was unsafe, and you were better off here in Winterfell. She had to help King Robb. Help him try to rescue Father, Arya, and me. She stayed to help him fight, so the North wouldn’t be subject to another mad king. Just like Father did. 

“She didn’t leave you, she didn’t abandon you. She would be here if the gods allowed it. I know that for sure.”

She at least had strong memories of Mother and Father. He had been so young and then so alone. Of course it had felt like abandonment. 

She and Bran would have to make sure to tell him more stories of the happy times, before.

“Why did he say that then?” Rickon’s face was red and wet. She brushed his mussed hair and continued speaking with a soft tone.

“Maester Luwin has taught you about the Old Kings of Winter and Torrhen Stark, right? The North was free, but Torrhen Stark had to bend a knee because the Targaryens invaded with dragons that could have killed everyone.

“But, the North did not like being vassals to the South, and the North remembers. Now that the North is free again, many people want to reject everything from the South, good and bad, because they see it as something forced upon them. You know what its like not to like things you are forced to do.” She ruffled his bangs. She spent much of her time desperately attempting to get Rickon to do things he did not want. “The North does not want to think of the three centuries of Southron control.”

She let Rickon sit and reflect on those ideas and held him close. 

There was a great deal the North didn’t want to think on, but also couldn’t forget. The fact that the North had bent a knee, and stayed loyal to the south. The fact that Rickard Stark had had ambitions to the South, which showed a lack of faith the North would rule itself again. The fact that the North had overthrown the Targaryens, but had remained part of the Seven Kingdoms. The fact that twice in as many generations good Northmen were lost fighting wars to avenge their dead Wardens and rescue Stark girls held by Southron royals. And that twice in that time, the Northern Army had failed to find and retrieve the girl before she was ruined. 

She looked up at Aunt Lyanna’s statue and wondered, would they have called her ‘Targaryen Whore’ if she had survived her fever? Would they claim that she wasn’t a Stark, and deny the only name she had - the only name she’ll ever have?

She understood. If they thought she wasn’t a Stark it was better. The North hadn’t failed to be unflinchingly resistant to the South for nearly 300 years and the North hadn’t failed those it was supposed to protect. 

So they deemed her totally Southron: her hair, her mother, her Septa’s head rotting on a pike, and her absent direwolf – killed by Ned Stark himself, they noted – these things reflected her entirety. 

And that was why she had realized she would have to become resigned to this life. She would grow old a lonely not maid. Princess Sansa, the King’s shameful sister. 

If the derision were just about the immediate shock of a lost maidenhead, eventually it would fade. Her status, her breeding, and her looks would be enough for some lord - minor enough to need her while still respectable enough not to diminish her family in her marriage - and he would risk the gossip for the chance to curry favor with his king. 

But, north of the Neck, the concern wasn’t her inability to pray to the Maiden. It was deeper. And the North would remember it all for generations to come.

Rickon’s tears had slowed. She carded her fingers through his curls. 

“Mother loved you. Father loved you. Of this there is no question. Ignore Markus, and anyone who speaks like him. Know our parents loved you, and that while they may not be present, they are here in spirit.

“Now, stand up and brush off your cloak. We need to return to the keep. Once there, you will apologize to Maester Luwin, you will attend your lessons, you will write whatever lines he sets for you, and then you will return to your room and miss dinner tonight.”

“Why?”

“Because, while I understand why you were upset, and agree, you have repeatedly disobeyed me and Maester Luwin, and you are old enough that actions carry consequences.”

*

The Manderlys are frustrated. He kept re-reading the letter from White Harbor, as if repetition would yield new ideas. The Manderlys are frustrated, the Flints are anxious, and the Dustins are aggravating.

Plus, as of today’s letter, the Tyrells are coming.

He knew that was a good thing, but it was one more concern. 

Mother had treated with them, before he sent her to the Iron Isles.

In the aftermath of Renly Baratheon’s death, and then Mother’s, he’d received a letter from their heir explaining that the Reach could not ally with a Kingslaying worshipper of R’holler, and needed to join with the Lannisters to neutralize the threat from the Ironborn raids, but that they did not view the North as an enemy. 

When they’d set peace terms with Tywin Lannister, the presence and words of Mace Tyrell and his son Garlan had confirmed the letter. All of which was key. Denying soldiers from the Reach to fight his forces had brought the war to a swifter end, but now he had to return the courtesy by welcoming the Tyrells for trade negotiations. Despite the fact that it was destabilizing to bring Southron representatives north of the Neck.

Their presence would make the Flints more anxious and the Maderlys more frustrated. The Dustins were always aggravating.

White Harbor, he wondered what to do about White Harbor. Perhaps seeing the water would inspire him? He headed to the hot springs, torch in hand. No one should be in the family pools this time of night. 

But, when he arrived there was a disturbance in the water. He drew his sword – war had made him jumpy. A body shot up out from the depth, naked back to him. It was a woman.

It was his sister.

“Sansa!” he exclaimed. 

With a sharp intake of breath she spun around, and upon seeing him dropped back down until the water reached her chin. His hand was still clutched around Winter’s hilt.

“Your Grace.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were down here. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll be in my solar. Would you meet me there later?”

With that, he turned and with a studied, measured pace walked back to his rooms. Kings do not flee. Especially not from their younger sisters. Who were naked. 

While he’d certainly never wanted to see that, it wasn’t the lack of clothes that left him so discomfited. 

He’d seen naked women before, of course. 

And scars from broadswords. 

Just never together.

Later, Sansa knocked on his door. 

“You Grace?”

That startled him, as it usually did from his siblings. Rickon and Bran often forewent the effort, but Sansa had always been perfect with her courtesies. She was back in the day’s gown, but her wet hair had been secured with a long braid.

“Please come in. Sit.”

Sansa took her usual chair by the fire, and clasped her hands. She usually preceded him to the room, and brought her stitching to keep her busy. It often gave him something to focus on, but not tonight. 

“How was your day?” he asked. That was not the question he’d intended. He needed to confirm what he had seen, but he was fairly sure he knew what the answer would be. He did not want to hear her say it, but he didn’t have a choice. King’s had to be brave, he supposed, and what was one conversation compared to fields of lion banners.

“Well, I met with the farrier about the horses.”

“Good. That’s important.”

“Yes.”

An awkward pause enveloped them.

“What happened?” He gestured at her, an abortive hand wave meant to encompass things he doesn’t want to make himself articulate. Sansa took a steadying breath

“Your Grace was very successful on the battlefield. King Joffrey was understandably upset by the many victories. His armies may have been ineffectual, but he found other ways to strike direct blows.”

“I see.”

“I’m glad. I used to pray for your army in King’s Landing - in the Godswood and the sept.”

“Thank you,” he told her. He was sure she had. He’d found her before the weirwood several times since her return.

“Now. They’ve healed? Are you alright?”

“I am fine, thank you for your concern.”

He looked at her, sitting tall, head held high, right hand over left. She looked eerily like Mother. He didn’t want to talk about this, and suspected she did not either.

He breathed in and out, and a familiar litany flashed through his mind: Father’s bones; the letter from the Greyjoy’s about Mother; Arya, about whom they knew nothing; Theon, bleeding out at the Whispering Wood. 

But if his sister could face broadswords, he supposed words were just wind.

“We need to speak about marriage.”

“Yes, we do. When do you plan to be betrothed?”

“Me?”

“Yes, I assume there have been discussions.”

“Currently, the theory is that it would be better to wait until later in autumn. The colder and harsher the weather, the less likely it is Southron forces would break the peace and attack. For now, the North has a King, and two heirs, who, though they may not be men yet, are not that far off. If another war were to occur, and I were to fall, better King Bran, than my infant son with a regent.”

“That seems sensible. As soon as you are betrothed, it will devalue Bran and Rickon’s positions, even if there is not yet a babe.”

“Exactly.”

“Later in the autumn, we will have a short betrothal, following by a wedding. It will also offer the opportunity to bring the entire North together one more time before winter.”

“Whom are you planning to marry?

“Whom do you think?”

“The Maderlys have two daughters the appropriate age, and would want one to be your queen. Their wealth and breeding grants them a strong claim. But their house is seen as too Southron. The rest of the North would never accept that. Eddara Tallhart would be a good choice. Torrhen’s Square is important and would show you are the King to all the North, but she would still be too young at that point. Alys Karstark, then?”

“Yes, much to Lord Rickard’s joy.”

“That will be a good match.”

“I also wanted to speak of you and marriage.”

“Yes?” 

“There haven’t been any valid offers, yet.”

“I didn’t suppose there had been.”

“Its probably just a matter of time. Other…concerns will fade, I’m sure.”

“I hope so. Please do tell me, before your formal betrothal.”

“I will.”

*

Something important was going to happen today, Bran knew it. He’d been having dreams for days, of wolves and weirwoods. It wasn’t bad, he didn’t think, he knew bad. The last few years had taught him well. Just…important.

Summer and Shaggydog paced. Even Grey Wind, usually so proper, like a king himself, seemed unsettled. 

He’d talked with Robb and Rickon about their dreams, of the nights when he felt he was Summer, and they knew it too. All three had nights when they explored the Wolfswood, while still in their beds.

He’d never asked Sansa. He didn’t want to remind her of Lady.

He wished he could ask Old Nan for more stories of wargs and skinchangers and the First Men. If she knew how to control it?

So he sat in the Great Hall, picking over his meal, waiting, when suddenly one of the guards burst into the room.

“Your Grace, I beg your pardon, but there’s a young boy at the gate asking for entrance. Says he lives here. He has a direwolf with him.”


	4. Rickon, Sansa, Jon

Arya was back!

(He wasn’t really sure what that meant, he had so few memories of her from before.) 

Some nights before bed, Sansa and Bran would tell him stories about before the old King came to Winterfell. Mother would sing this particular song and loved to dance. Father would take Ice (which was the big sword that Robb’s sword had been made from by the Lannisters) out to the weirwood tree to clean. Arya would throw snowballs and hated anything that that was a “womanly art.” She loved playing at swords, and was not one for courtesies. 

Their descriptions matched what he saw from her. 

After the guard had announced a boy and a wolf were at the gate, Sansa had leapt from her perch at the end of the table and ran for the gate. He didn’t think he had ever seen her run before - gripping her skirts in one hand while the other pumped at her side - not even when she was chasing him for lessons.

Bran was asking Hodor for help to follow, while Smalljon – who should really be called Bigjon – was telling Robb to wait, it could be a trap. He decided he should chase Sansa. He and Shaggy could protect her if it was someone bad.

But, when they got out there, Sansa’s arms were wrapped around someone short and dirty. When they released the figure, and he looked at the person’s face, he declared, “That doesn’t look like a boy!”

“I’m not a boy, I’m your sister,” she’d retorted, indignantly.

She had a sword, and a wolf, and looked like she would be willing to go on adventures. This could be fun.  
*

Arya stalked into Mother’s solar, her hand hovering where a sword would have hung. 

“How could you?” She demanded. 

Arya hadn’t even been home two full days an already they were fighting, it was good to know that among all the upheaval, some things remained the same. Arya play fighting, exploring, and getting into scrapes, while she sat inside the castle had become Arya sneaking from Harrenhall, up through the Riverlands, the Neck, and the North to arrive at Winterfell, while she cowered in the Red Keep.

When she had returned moons ago, she’d hidden with the boys for several days, before forcing herself out of the safety of the chambers of her childhood. Arya had awoken this morning, and declared she needed to explore Winterfell. She had borrowed breeches from Bran and set off.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How could you? He killed Father. You saw it happen. But even that wasn’t enough, was it? You already knew what he was. He ordered Mycah killed and you didn’t even care.” The words tumbled out from Arya like water from a wheel. 

She took a sharp breath to respond, but Arya was already going again. Not shouting, just accusing.

“You couldn’t give up your dream of being Queen or the South. You always wanted that more than you wanted us. Did you think if you lay with him he would keep you? That you could be his Queen even without the North? Did you think you could buy the throne with yourself, Father and Mother and Theon, Robb and his Kingdom, Bran, and Rickon and me be damned?” Arya was breathing heavy. Her fist was clenched, ready to strike, but her eyes were wet.

“I didn’t have a choice.” She started.

“That’s your excuse, you didn’t have a choice? There’s always a choice!”

She ran cold.

“Perhaps you are right.” She said. “Perhaps I did have a choice. I could choose to let Joffrey do whatever he wished. I could choose to refuse him: to fight and to be killed, by the Kingsguard, by the Mountain, by Joffrey himself. He would have liked that. He had this crossbow that could have used, or his sword, Hearteater. He had me kiss it once. Or, I suppose, I could have chosen to kill myself. 

She continued, ice to Arya’s fury. “I chose to survive. I chose to see my home again. I chose to be here for my family.

“And trust me, I know how many think I chose wrong. A martyred princess is worth so much more than a ruined sister. Next time, I’ll be sure to choose better.” 

She stood and walked out, leaving Arya behind. She chose not to look back. It had nothing to do with the tears in her eyes.

Arya found her in the Godswood later that afternoon.

“I’m sorry.” Arya said dejectedly. She looked up, meeting Arya’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to be cruel. I heard people talking in the yard. I heard that you, you know, and I just got so mad. The idea that you picked him, over us. Again. Even after everything. 

“I hate him so much.”

“Me too.” She responded. Arya started. She patted the rock beside her. 

“I didn’t want to,” she continued. “I know, before I was excited. He seemed like everything out of a song. But I was stupid, and I learned songs aren’t real, except for the villains.

“Those certainly exist.”

“Did the ones you met hurt you, like that?” She shuddered at the idea of someone taking Arya, who was still so small she couldn’t have even flowered yet.

“No. Not that way. They tried other things, but I fought back. It was better once I made it to the Riverlands. I knew if I could just find Nymeria, she would keep me safe. She did. She and Needle.”

She traced her fingers along the hilt of the blade at Arya’s side.

“Nymeria was wild. I was afraid to take her near people. That if I did someone would force her from me again, so we hid from everyone, and made our way home alone. Maybe that kept me safer than anything.”

“I’m so glad.” She looked at her hands, then Arya’s, rough with calluses. “I’m still amazed that you made it all the way back home, alone. That was brave.”

Arya snorted. 

“I thought you would have said it was not very lady like. Pretending to be a boy, with a sword. Sleeping on the ground.”

“I think survival is very Princesses-like.”

“I don’t know how to be a Princess.” Arya shook her head. She’d need to clean up the rough cut of her hair.

“I think you do. If you could survive the wiles of Westeros, you can survive the Northern court. I’ll help you.”

“You always did want to be royal.”

“You know, that will require a great deal from you. Things you don’t like. But it will be important: for King Robb, for our family, for the North. You’re going to need to be a public Princess, to help him with his court.”

Arya made a face like she’d bit into a lemon.

“Can’t you do that? You’ll do a better job.” 

Her own resulting sigh was not very Princess-like.

“Do you not recall the shouting match we had an hour ago? All the things you said?”

“That’s different.” Arya responded. It made her sound like Rickon.

“For many people it is not.” She braced her hands against the rock, and continued. “They agree with everything that was said.”

“That’s stupid.”

“It may be. But, I cannot do it and His Grace needs help. Someone must take the reigns of the court that is growing here in Winterfell, and it cannot be the King. I cannot, Rickon is too young, and others will unfairly hold Bran’s infirmity against him. It has to be you.”

“I am no good at this. You know this. You certainly told me enough times.”

She echoed Arya’s words. “That was different. That was just childish fighting. This is life and death.

“You were smart enough to make it back half the length of the continent. You can learn how to handle a court. You managed to hide your self in enemy territory. You can learn to bite your tongue. You’ve always been so good at meeting others, making them feel special. Now you just have to also make friends with the nobles as well. 

“It won’t be so bad. I’ll handle the day to day of the keep – you won’t have to worry about the administration.” Arya still looked dubious. “I will do all your sewing.”

“I’ll try. For Robb.”

“You will have to wear dresses though.”

“Sansa!”

“But, perhaps your more non-traditional dancing lessons don’t have to end. Have you met Dacey?”

*

Castle Black bustled with the early morning. It seemed so full, though he knew it wasn’t even at one fifth of its historical strength. Men were everywhere compared to his early days with the Watch. 

It seemed so strange. But the last few years, surreal chains of events had become the norm. Father had died, Robb had become King, and then the North a truly independent Kingdom. Or, as had been the case of for the new brothers surrounding him: their liege, Stannis Baratheon had killed his brother with a ghost, burned his nephew alive on a beach at the behest of some fire priestess, and then been murdered by one of his advisors. 

He had to hand it to the Lannisters, they certainly knew how to take advantage of the situation. Faced with a collapsing enemy army that had already lost much of its strength against wildfire, they had offered simple terms to each remaining soldier: the black or death. Most chose the former, and they were slapped in irons, packed into ships, and sent to Eastwatch.

In one fell swoop, they had removed the threat of Stannis’s army and ensured that any further attempt by his forces to unseat King Joffrey would require escaping the death promised deserters of the Watch and, given that Robb wanted his peace to hold, a war against the Northern forces on their own land, before even making it to the Trident. 

Some of his new, disgruntled brothers had whispered about trying to ally with the North against the Lannisters, but the more experienced Watchmen explained, repeatedly, that the North would never fight an unneeded war with winter coming. They’d added that the North’s independence meant they cared little about the ruler below the Neck.

These men had taken to complaining about what they saw as the manifold failings of the North. Right now, it was the people, who had already been declared to the most stupid and least cultured of Westeros.

“And on top of it, they have no honor.”

His ears pricked up. 

“The women are all whores and the men don’t give a shit. Have you seen the ones in Molestown?” 

A round of laughs, and one “Unfortunately.”

“Not surprising - they learned it from the top. The North let the bastard on the Iron Throne fuck their little princess and didn’t do anything about it. Just turned tail and ran, pulling their army up and hiding behind a swamp, like a child.”

His insides ran cold.

“What did you say?” he demanded.

“The North is a bunch children devoid of honor. Perhaps it froze off at birth.”

“No, before.” He stepped closer, fist tight and ready.

“Joffrey took one of the princesses’ maidenhead, then sent her North like used goods.”

“Who knows,” his friend offered, “maybe she was asking for it? A king’s cock is a king’s cock, bastard or not.” 

“Don’t say that.” He ordered. The commotion had attracted attention, and he saw Edd, Grenn, and Sam approaching. 

“Jon, the Lord Commander needs you.” Sam interjected. That could be just a feint, but he’d been taking on more duties with the new men. He was always being summoned and ordered about. As he’d looked to Sam, Edd and Grenn had interposed themselves. “Jon…”

“Coming.” This would have to hold. The man’s words repeated in his mind, colored by the stories he had heard since coming to the wall. From behind him, he heard Edd, all matter of fact. 

“Good bread this morning.”

“It was fine?”

“It was certainly better than if you’d had to hunt to eat today. Where do you think the grain came from?” Edd asked.

“The ground?”

“By way of King Robb Stark. The Watch may take no part in the politics of the realm, but we certainly know where are supplies come from. Consider that when you delight in the failings of the North or slander its people.”

He had reached Sam, who was looking worried. 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t almost start fights with men who outnumber us more than 3 to 1? And are all trained fighters?”

“Did you hear what they said, Sam?”

They must have meant Sansa. No one had heard of Arya in over a year. Robb had written that she had disappeared and was presumed dead. He’d ached at the words. He had promised her they would see each other again.

Sam looked uncomfortable, “I did. They may be wrong? But if they’re not, well, would your sister want you to get yourself killed?”

Half-sister, his mind whispered traitorously in a high-pitched, youthful tone. He shook his head no. Before he could respond further, the Lord Commander approached. 

“Jon.” Mormont called. Sam shrugged and looked a bit sheepish. “I am sending a ranging north of the wall to reconnoiter the Wildling camps. I want you to accompany them. Be observant and careful. I want to know if they have turned south again.”

“Yes, Lord Commander.”

The Lord Commander walked away, leaving them behind. He seemed invigorated by the influx of new men, but also preoccupied by the odd movements of the wildlings. The wildings had been coalescing, the brothers had started to worry about an attack on the wall, but then, they’d made camp and their numbers had thinned. More rangers had disappeared – Uncle Benjen had disappeared – and a few had returned telling fantastic and terrifying stories. 

“Sam, I have to prepare to go north. Would you, maybe, quietly, ask the more trustworthy brothers what they’ve heard about my sister, and tell me when I return?”


	5. Arya, Jon

She’d never thought she’d feel this hemmed in by Winterfell. Certainly not when she’d been walking half the length of Westeros to return. When it has just been her and Nymeria picking their way through the Riverlands and the Neck, Winterfell had been all she’d dreamed of.

 

To be honest, she shouldn’t feel this way. There were fewer frustrating duties day-to-day than during her childhood. Sansa made her take lessons. She argued that Mother and Father would have wanted her to learn at least through her 13th year, and that since she had missed so many years of tutelage, and that it was important to set an example for Rickon, who raged against the inactivity of schooling. However, with Septa Mordane gone, she took lessons with the boys and Maester Luwin, and they addressed much more interesting topics: fighting, the places in Westeros she’d crept through, or how the North would survive the coming winter, not songs or poetry.

 

Outside formal schooling she also helped Sansa with the ledgers, checking the figures, but that was important.

 

Yes, there were gowns, but also breeches and sword fighting with Dacey Mormont, who is incredible and a proper member of Robb’s guard. She’d even agreed to practice proper dancing with Sansa because Dacey said it would be good for her footwork.

 

Her acquiescence, and their lessons with Rickon had made Sansa smile, bright and for real, not that fake, pleasant expression she wore everywhere, even when people said awful things about her.

 

They’d fought all the time before, but since returning over a moon ago, they’d battled only twice. The first time didn’t bear rehashing. But then, a fortnight before, after she’d gotten into a tussle with one of the visiting steward’s assistants, Sansa had sat her down and began lecturing.

 

“Arya, you’re a Princess. You cannot fight. It isn’t fitting. Its important for this family, for the North, that you act properly.”

 

“He was saying awful things.”

 

“I do not care. You need to act with decorum. Princesses don’t engage in brawls!”

 

Then Sansa had asked, “About whom?” When met with silence, she continued, “About King Robb? About Bran? About me?”

 

She’d looked down at the last question. Sansa nodded, taking that as confirmation. She was right.

 

“Arya, promise me, no fighting. If you hear something about King Robb, come to me or to Dacey, it could be important. If they are speaking is about me, just let it pass. It would just make it worse. It is so much more vital that you be a proper Princess, than fight for my honor. If you absolutely must fight for honor, you can do so on Bran’s behalf. But, I would prefer you don’t. Its better if you don’t.”

 

“It wrong and I don’t care about being a proper Princess.”

 

She had stalked off. Winterfell had felt so small and confining that afternoon, as it so often did now. As a child, it had seemed gigantic. But now it was diminished, as if the loss of people, Father, Mother, Jory, Jon at the Wall, even Theon, had reduced it.

 

Nymeria was pacing, doing circuits of the solar, while she finished telling Sansa of her time in the yards practicing with Dacey. She’d watched Dacey spar with Smalljon. It was fantastic. If only they would let her spar too!

 

Sansa set her sewing in her lap. It was an old dress of Sansa’s her sister was hemming on her behalf. Sansa had kept her word – no sewing.

 

“What do you think of him?”

 

“Whom?”

 

“Smalljon.”

 

“Well, he’s a good swordsman, very strong. He holds his own against Ser Roderik. I know he served Robb well during the war, and now. “

 

“Yes, Greatjon and Smalljon are very loyal bannermen. Very brave during the war.”

 

“Well, after Grey Wind convinced them.” Sansa laughed.

 

“Yes, I suppose. And he is handsome. Though the beard is a bit much.”

 

“I guess.” She stopped and tilted her head in confusing. “What is this about?”

 

“What would you think of a betrothal with Smalljon? Do you think you could come to love him?”

 

“Wait, me, what?”

 

“The Umbers are very loyal bannermen and Last Heath is a great keep. It would be an honor to be its lady. But, it’s also called Last Hearth because it is so far north. They are less tied to the courtesies you don’t enjoy. There would few fewer gowns and more opportunities for you to wear breeches, I suspect. You would be quite close to Jon. You could travel to Molestown to see him sometimes.

 

“Also, Smalljon is close with Dacey. He doesn’t seem to mind a woman with a sword. You could keep practicing.

 

“I know he is a bit older than you, but I thought it might be a good match.”

 

“I don’t know. I never wanted to be a lady of a keep. I don’t want to be married, not now.”

 

“Not now. Mother didn’t marry until 18. Just a betrothal, and then marriage could wait. You’ll have to marry someone, just consider Smalljon.”

 

The conversation ended abruptly because Robb arrived. Sansa and Robb were so awkward now. She avoided him in public, taking care to never stand too close. Sansa always sat at the far end of the high table, with Bran, Rickon, or herself placed between them. They were better in private. Sansa seemed to have no issues siting next to him on the nights in the solar, but their conversations were all business.

 

“The Manderlys are at it again.”

 

“At what?” she asked.

 

“They feel shut out and marginalized in the new North,” Sansa explained. “They are the second wealthiest family, they fought well and loyally during the war, and have two daughters who might have become Queen, but their Southron ties make the other Northern houses nervous.”

 

“And now, someone vandalized the White Harbor sept. They’ve offered to foster Rickon, to demonstrate the royal family’s ongoing friendship with White Harbor,” Robb relayed.

 

“That’s horrible,” Sansa said immediately, “but you can’t send Rickon.” Sansa paused, and then, seeing no interruption, continued.

 

“You need him here. He strengthens both your and Bran’s positions. If you send him away, you’ll have to marry immediately, and that’s less than optimal for other reasons.” Sansa looked at her, then at Robb.

 

“If you foster him without marrying immediately, it will also disrupt the balance with the other Northern houses.” Sansa added. She had no idea how Sansa just knew all of these things, but Robb’s face reflected agreement.

 

“You’re right.”

 

“Besides,” Sansa continued. “Rickon’s too…wild to foster. He’s not always the best at following the rules or instruction and if he acted out while there, it could cause a host of other problems.”

 

Robb frowned. “I know all of this, but I cannot simply deny their request without offering something in return. They’re too powerful and provided too much support during the war. The North needs White Harbor, despite the rest of the North’s refusal to accept it now.”

 

Nymeria stopped her circuit and Grey Wind looked up from his seated position at Robb’s right.

 

“I’ll go,” she interjected. “Send me to White Harbor.”

 

“That,” Sansa paused, reflecting on the suggestion, “that is a very good solution. It would please the Manderlys without alarming the other houses. Arya’s clearly not going to marry one of the Manderly daughters, and her visit wouldn’t carry the same threat that sending one of your heirs would.”

 

Sansa looked to Robb, who seemed intrigued.

 

“We’ll tell them that Arya would like the chance to spend time with Wyman Manderly’s granddaughters. They will appreciate that. It will make it easier for them to make strong matches if they are seen as friends with Arya. But at the same time, no one could every accuse Arya of being too Southron.”

 

“Yes. I will write to hem tomorrow. Thank you Arya. That solves a months long problem.” Robb beamed at her.

 

White Harbor would be good, she thought. Nice to be somewhere new. Beside, they couldn’t betroth her if she wasn’t in Winterfell. Right?

 

*

 

Jon bounded into his quarters. He should be exhausted. They had barely stepped back in the castle walls, when the Lord Commander had requested a briefing. There was alarming news to report. It had kept him awake nights on the journey back to Castle Black.  

 

“Lord Commander,” Orys Florent, formerly one of Stannis’s men, had provided the bulk of the briefing. “It’s an army, but not the one we expected. They are not the vanguard, but the back camps. It was women, children, and the aged. They placed their most vulnerable facing us.”

 

Jon, interjected, articulating his worries him since they had spied upon the camp. “The wildlings hate the Watch. They fear us, for good reason. What threat is so much more dangerous that the wildlings would view the Watch as the lesser threat?”

 

Lord Commander Mormont had not answered, but had extracted further details, before dismissing them for food and sleep. Sam had caught him on his way out with a raven that had arrived for him. It brought better news than he could have thought to hope for.

 

Arya was alive! Alive and unharmed! She had walked back to Winterfell, Nymeria and Needle in hand.

 

He didn’t think he could sleep for the joy of it.

 

Atop his bed were further letters. It was ironic. There were men who had been heirs to great houses and names among the Watch now. But he was the one that received the most mail. It would have likely caused jealousy, were it not for the fact that his letters to Robb about the dire state of the Watch – and the threat the influx of Stannis’s men could cause if they decided the food, clothes, and duties of the Watch were not worth trying to strike our on their own – that had led to the regular additional supplies.

 

One letter appeared to be from Robb, but the second was unexpected. The pair were dated far earlier than the raven, and must have arrived shortly after he had ridden north.

 

_Dear Jon,_

_I hope you are well. I hear from King Robb that you have been made the Lord Commander’s steward and he relies on you. It is quite an honor to be entrusted with respect by such a man. Congratulations, I am sure it is well earned._

_I am greatly relieved to be back in Winterfell. I missed the castle and its inhabitants. Home is well, and itself unchanged. Meanwhile, his Grace cuts an impressive figure. Bran has grown so smart. Rickon is a rambunctious young man. I despair at getting him to act as a Prince ought, but his demeanor is infectious. Today to try and avoid his punishment for running off from lessons – again – he brought me a sparkly rock, and declared it a jewel._

_I imagine you are likely eager for any news of Arya. I am sorry to report that I have little to share, and nothing new. I wished to send you what I know, if it might be a comfort. Arya disappeared the day Father was arrested. I know not whether she ran and escaped, or was taken hostage. I do know she was not held by the Lannisters. King Joffrey is a poor keeper of secrets, and would not have been able to restrain telling of her location. I have heard no rumors of her after that day. I asked Uncles Edmure and Brynden to listen for any stories of her as the Kingdoms return to peace, and am sure His Grace is doing the same._

 

At the bottom of the letter, in the same exacting script, was a final paragraph; the slight difference in color of the ink was all that suggested that it had been drafted separate from the main of the text.

 

_Since Father’s death I have had a great deal of time to consider my assumptions and actions. I am sorry if anything I said before made you feel less._

_Love,_

_Sansa_

 

He had been so overwhelmed by the news of Arya, he’d forgotten to ask Sam what he had uncovered. But, looking at the end of the letter, he felt he didn’t really need Sam’s confirmation.

 

He thought of his sisters, both safe at Winterfell now. Sansa, who delighted in songs, and Arya, who yearned for swords. They had been so young, when they had left with Father. They all had been so young, himself included. But, somehow, the six had survived, and that warranted celebration.

 

He sat down at the desk, and began drafting letters to his sisters.

 

_Dearest Arya,_

_I returned to Castle Black to the most wonderful news…_


	6. Sansa

Bran was seated outside reading, while Rickon and Markus dashed about the yard. As she approached from behind, she saw sadness in the set of his shoulders.

 

“Bran, hello.”

 

“Sansa.”

 

“How is your reading?”

 

He frowned at the book, and responded, “Boring.”

 

She glanced at the book and responded, “Its not for lessons, is it?”

 

“No.”

 

“Then stop.”

 

“Nothing else to do. I miss Arya. It was nice to have her here.”

 

“She had to go to White Harbor. It was important.”

 

“I know, but it was so quickly after she returned.”

 

A playful shout drew both of their attention. It occurred to her that Bran was lonely. First, he had been a little boy when he had to take on all the responsibilities as the Stark in Winterfell. That had distanced him from his friends. Then, when Robb and she had returned to shoulder the burden, his friends had all grown such that their play was more often sparring or shooting – tasks he couldn’t participate in any longer. Which led to the situation here: Bran sitting on the sidelines, alone.

 

“Well, let’s find something else to do other than boring books. You know, when I was in the Red Keep, an Essosian game, cyvasse was quite popular with some from Dorne. You have different game pieces: elephants, dragons, a king. Some would spend hours playing. I could see about getting a set.”

 

Bran looked skeptical. “You would import a game from the South. From the South and Essos?”

 

“I would,” she said, a determined set to her shoulders. “But maybe it might be better to just borrow the rules and make it suitably Northern: mammoths, ice dragons, a king, of course.”

 

He laughed. “We could add weir wood trees and Children of the Forest.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“I’ll think about it.”

 

“That’s fine…I’m not sure whom I would ask to get the rules in the first place.” She wondered if Maester Luwin would know.

 

“That could be a problem.”

 

“Let’s table it for now, but let me know. No more sitting here though. To library to return the boring book.”

 

Bran followed, pushing at the wheels of his chair and seeming content to allow her to lead the expedition.

 

“Do you know where Walder is for the stairs?”

 

“He usually waits inside the door. He doesn’t like it now that the weather is turning a bit colder. But we don’t need to go to the library now. I could return the book later.”

 

“No, you have to come with me, I need your help.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“You know the library better than anyone, except Maester Luwin of course, and I want to find some books - histories, with women in them.”

 

*

 

"Glennis has the best fabrics in Wintertown. I have never understood how she gets her weaves so tight. It makes for a stiff dress, but so long lasting."

 

"The navy was particularly fine."

 

"I know we were only there for notions, but I would like to make a new dress. Maybe the maroon? How do you think it would look with my hair?"

 

She marveled at Beth, how she seemed so unchanged. This was a conversation they could have had at any point in their childhood.

 

Now, in some ways that was unkind. Beth grieved for Jory, and she knew the Cassel family had known their share of loss. But Beth seemed untouched by it. She was jealous.

 

That was also unfair. Beth had been kind, choosing to ignore the intervening years, and had lent a useful pair of hands as she had taken on the administration of Winterfell. She was pleasant and well liked, and always knew what was happening in the keep. That was why she had come on the journey to Glennis's. Fine fabric was one thing, but Glennis seemed to be connected to comings and goings of the North, and she was always more talkative when there were two visitors: one to pursue the wares and another to make thoughtful interjections.

 

The news was good. The Glovers had left after a short visit a week before and Wintertown was prospering with the increased traffic.

 

Beth might not have changed, but she had. While as a child she'd delighted in each new visitor, now she preferred the calm of Winterfell and its surroundings on its own. At this point, all words that were desired had been said, and the merchants knew who controlled the keeps purse strings. It was only with visitors that the equilibrium was dislodged.

 

The Tyrells would arrive in under a fortnight, but for now she had peace.

 

"Maroon would look lovely. What neckline would you choose?"

 

As Beth considered, they walked into the yard and found Robb dismounting after a ride with Bran. She was glad. She has asked His Grace to make a little more time for his brother, noting that until he had a child of his own, Bran was heir, and needed to be mentored as such.

 

"Oh." Beth was looking over at Robb and Bran with shock and a touch of lust. “My, he is handsome.”

 

This was awkward. Robb is her King and had known Beth since her birth. Not to mention, he is practically betrothed.” Beth turned to her with a beseeching look.

 

“Do you know what colors he is partial to?” She began to consider a response to distract Beth from the King. “I would like to make Prince Bran a favor.”

 

“Oh, red. He likes red.” She giggled a bit. Bran!

 

*

 

She was exceptionally busy with the Tyrells arriving in under a week, but every morning she took the time to escort the boys to lessons. It seemed that the routine helped Rickon, whom she would quiz about what he wished to learn that day. Unlike most mornings, Maester Luwin loitered outside the door after Rickon and Bran had gone ahead into the lesson chambers. He extended a letter to her. “This arrived for you along with His Grace’s update from the Wall. There was one for Princess Arya as well. I sent it on to White Harbor.”

 

“Thank you. She will be thrilled to receive it.”

 

She carried it back to her solar, and opened it with some trepidation. She and Jon had never been particularly intimate. She was too closely aligned with Mother. But he was her brother, and it was nice to know he was safe. It was exceptionally honorable, serving among the Night’s Watch.

 

_Dear Sansa,_

_Thank you for your letter. It was kind of you to think of me. I was indeed worried about Arya. I was north of the Wall when it arrived, but had it preceded news of Arya’s survival, every scrap of information would have been welcome._

_I am so happy to hear that both of you have returned to Winterfell and are now safe. After such experiences, I can imagine how comforting it is to be safe at home. In response to your letter, I wouldn’t worry about Rickon, he’s just a boy, and I’m sure your guidance is shaping him into a proper Prince. I recall the lessons you gave me quite well._

_I vacillated on whether to address this, so feel free to read no further.   Just know that I appreciate your all your words and well wishes, especially those at the end of the letter, and extend the same to you._

_One hears many things at the Wall – lies and truth. Sometimes the latter seems the former, and vice versa. I hope it is untrue, but I have heard that you were mistreated by King Joffrey in King’s Landing. If so, I didn’t want to shy away from it, though I hope my addressing it does not cause your further distress. I’m sorry that that happened to you. I hope you know that is not your fault and it does not change your true worth._

_I’ve come to think that men’s honor can only be based on their own actions - not those things over which they have not control. I have known men with high title at the wall who reflect all we would hope from them, but also those who do not. I have known men with one name who are the epitome of strength, bravery, and kindness. I am sure it is the same with women. So, do not let the actions of another weigh on your soul._

_Thank you for looking after our family. Be well._

_Love,_

_Jon_

 

*

 

With the Tyrells coming, there had been much more talk of the war, its end, and the South, than during her entire time in Winterfell leading up to this point.   It was an education to hear of the proceedings from the North’s perspective. The victories she had prayed so hard for, untainted in the participant’s retellings by the terror of receiving the updates from Joffrey, with malevolence in his eyes and the Kingsguard at her back.

 

The night before the Tyrell’s were due to arrive, she sat with Robb, reviewing the plans for the reception and final preparations.

 

When the work was done, she straightened her spine, turned to him and asked, “Why did you not send anyone for me during the war?”

 

Robb looked taken aback. He wasn’t expecting such a question, especially not amid discussion of feast foods and bed arrangements.

 

“I had no choice. My bannermen – I couldn’t trade Jaime Lannister, they wouldn’t allow it. And they were right. He was worth a great deal when we negotiated with his father at the end of the war. He was worth many of the concessions we needed. None of the other prisoners were of sufficient value that the Lannisters would have made the trade.

 

“Our forces could not have successfully fought their way to King’s Landing, we needed to attack weaker targets to make them amenable to settlement. And, none of our forces knew the Red Keep well enough to sneak in and back out through the Crownlands without the both of you being killed.”

 

She thought of Arya, shouting at her right after her sister’s return to Winterfell.

 

She nodded, “I see. Thank you, your Grace.

 

“I believe we have accomplished all we can this evening. With your leave, I will retire. There are early morning preparation I need to make before the Tyrell host arrives.”


	7. Sansa, Willas, Sansa, Arya, Sansa

As she pinned her braid up as she did every day, she felt akin to the length, twisted into itself.

 

She felt like her soul was being folded into smaller and smaller squares, and that one morning she would wake up to find it had all but disappeared. She wondered if anyone would even notice the difference that day.

 

Summer would notice, she thought, gazing at the direwolf that had joined her that morning.

 

Bran had told her that his wolf found his constant studies boring, and that her duties around the keep were much more entertaining than sitting in Winterfell’s library or with Maester Luwin.

 

That was likely true. Perhaps it was simply confirmation bias, but it seemed like Summer joined her on the days when she felt the most small inside.

 

In return, she would bathe and brush out his coat, as she had for Lady so many times years ago.   She didn’t add ribbons, but she did jape to Bran that she had considered it.

 

Today, though it would be comforting to have Summer’s comfortable weight by her side, Bran needed him. It was important. She'd already told Summer to return to Bran twice this morning, but the direwolf had remained by her side.

 

She felt a bit a fool when she bent down, and, staring straight at the wolf told him, "Its important you stay by Bran while the visitors are here. You make everyone see what they often overlook, a true Prince and Stark. Stay with Bran, and give him that.

 

“You also keep him safe. There will be a Southron host here. Just…stay close. Don’t let them hurt him.”

 

Summer huffed, and trotted off.

 

Well, at least he followed direction.

*****  

They had been at Winterfell several days, but he was still tired and sore from the journey. He understood why it was important that he be the one to come – given some of the side comments made, the North would be less willing to negotiate with anyone who had fought beside the Lannisters, thereby excluding Father, Garlan, and Loras. Moreover, it was certainly fascinating to see the North. But could it not have been a little closer to home?

 

Even a few days in, he was already glad they hadn’t decided to conduct the negotiations via letter. An independent North was the new reality, and it seemed they were a type of people to value loyalty and personal relationships. So here he was, Growing Strong in traditional Tyrell fashion, through relationships.

 

King Robb seemed young, and occasionally a little unsure, but he clearly had a good head on his shoulders and was infinitely superior to the little monster who was theoretically his liege.

 

He had related the successes against the Ironborn, and it appeared the North, independent it may be, would be amenable to some sort of mutual aggression pact against the Iron Islands. King Robb had the hatred of a son wronged, but his advisors remembered the Greyjoy rebellion, the historical threat of Ironborn raiders, and in the case of the older woman, Maege, the generations of songs and stories starring the Ironborn.

 

Their willingness, snide comments about the South and Southroners aside, suggested this would be a successful journey, and quickly resolved. Which was good, it would better support the tale being provided King Joffrey: poor crippled Willas, being sent to engage in trade negotiations over banalities of food and lumber with the North to give him something to do. Tywin wouldn’t believe that for a second, but that mattered little, he understood he was dependent on Tyrell forces to keep his grandson on the throne.

 

It was a good lie, but more than a bit galling, especially given how sore his leg had been thanks to the rigors of the journey. The bite in the air did not help.

 

But, soon they would reach agreement on the key issue and trade, the purported reason for his presence, should be simple to put to bed. The Reach could afford to be generous with grain in return for a powerful friend – which the North could become – and ally against the Greyjoys.

 

As he focused on the coming negotiations, he was insufficiently attuned to his surroundings, and shortly his leg missed the step, bringing his knees and palms painfully to steps.

 

He released a frustrated swear, and litany against his leg, while fighting back the flood of pain.

 

From his position on the stairs, he heard someone approach from behind. He turned and saw the King’s sister. He had seen little of her since arriving. She had hung back, sitting distant from her older brothers, the King and his heir, and had spoken with a quiet reserve.

 

She offered a hand, and was able to help him to return to standing. She was not so much shorter than his Hightower height, and kept her hand out, offering steady support while he found his feet. He paused, trying to force courtesies over the rush of pain and shame, but she beat him to, speaking softly, but with hard tones.

 

“Lord Willas, I ask that while you are at Winterfell, you not speak in such a manner.”

 

That was unexpected.

 

“You are a grown man, and will do and think however you so chose, but I will not have you set a bad example for Bran. He but a boy, and I will not have you lead him to believe that he should think ill of himself.”

 

She was the picture of courtly decorum, exceptionally pretty in a fine, if simple dress, with the image dispelled only by her words, and the bright spots of anger on her cheeks.

 

Garlan had written of Princess Sansa from King’s Landing, mostly in the context of why under no circumstances should Margery marry the King no matter what Father thought, and had described her as young and far out of her depth, but also courteous, brave, and intelligent. Since his arrival, he’s seen the veneer of the courtesies, but now he saw glimpses of the latter traits.

 

“My apologies Princess.” She opened her mouth to respond, but at that moment, he heard footsteps from around the bend. She withdrew her hand, and stepped gracefully away before the source of the sound arrived.

 

“Good day, Lord Willas.”

* 

“Lord Willas,” she greeted him as their paths crossed when he emerged from the sept. “A blessed Smith’s Day be with you.”

 

“And also with you.”

 

“Thank you. I’m afraid I must offer my apologies. I was rather short the last time we spoke.” She would have said it again, as improper as her words had been. She would not have Bran see Lord Willas, heir to a Highgarden and able to stand and walk with only the use of a cane, and take the Tyrell’s words to heart as also meant for him.

 

“No need. You were looking out for your brother. That is exceptionally admirable.” She inclined her head in thanks to compliment. He continued, “I was not expecting to find a sept at Winterfell. I was led to believe that the North kept the old gods.”

 

“My father constructed it for my mother after she moved to Winterfell. My siblings and I were raised to follow the old gods and the new.”

 

“Oh, I haven’t seen you inside.”

 

“I tend to pray to both in the Godswood. I suppose that must sound quite strange.”

 

“Perhaps to others, but I am a Reachman. I understand the spiritual beauty in nature. I don’t think I’m ever quite as at home with myself and the gods, as in the gardens of my home.”

 

“That sounds lovely. I do hope our sept doesn’t disappoint. I know it is quite small, compared to those in the South.”

 

“Most certainly not. It has an intimate beauty. In fact, some overly large septs lose some of their sacred power to the earthly size. Like the Sept of Baelor.”

 

“I agree. I was not fond of it.”

 

“For which you show good taste, Princess.”

 

“If the Sept of Baelor is not to your liking, do you have a favorite?”

 

“The Starry Sept in Oldtown. It’s smaller, but as tall, with arching windows that feel like they reach to the sky. It is built of black stone, which is polished to shine like a mirror, and the many flickering candles reflect across its walls.” His hand curved in an endearing half echo of the shape of the windows while he described them with a smile.

 

“How beautiful.”

 

“And you, Princess Sansa, do you have a favorite?”

 

“Winterfell’s, or perhaps Riverrun’s sept. Both remind me of my mother and the Mother.”

 

“A very good reason.”

 

“Yes. Speaking of, I must actually go and offer my devotions as well.” It wouldn’t do to be seen speaking with the representatives of the South for too long. She had grown used to the détente that had been reached with respect to her status.

 

“Well, in that case, a blessed Smith’s Day be with you.”

 

“And also with you.”

*

Lady Wylla was not a good swordswoman. The younger Manderly daughter was game and laughed at the effort, but she was not talented. She didn't mind.  
  
She found she liked White Harbor more than she had expected. There are many new people with new stories. There was a whole city to explore. There were still the lessons with Dacey, who has accompanied her at Robb's request, now with an added green-haired companion. Meanwhile, she enjoyed spending time with Lady Wylla, who spoke her mind and was willing to explore. Her sister, Lady Wynafryd, was often tied to her duties as future heir, but would join them on many of their non-arms related excursions, bringing a quick, if more politic, tongue.  
  
She had expected it to be more like King's Landing, especially after Sanaa's efforts to prepare her for her visit. Sansa had sat with her for several days, quizzing her on White Harbor, the Manderly's sworn houses, and the House's history.  She had repeated many of Mother's lessons on good manners, and added some of her own. Mother had certainly never told her that if in a situation where you might cause dangerous offense, you could pretend you were unaware of the issue at hand and perhaps a bit dim, and by acting if the situation were less important, decrease the conflict.  That had seemed a bit like lying, but she'd decided against sharing that perspective.  Sansa had also identified the tensions between White Harbor and the North and certain topics to avoid.  
  
"I would not address Lady Wynafryd's marital status." Sansa had said. "The Manderlys wished to marry her, or her sister Lady Wylla, to His Grace, but that won't occur. Don't interpret her age - she is several name days beyond King Robb - for lack of offers. Rather making the right matriarchal match for a House like the Manderlys, with a female heir, is careful business, especially with the new political realities."  
  
That had seemed overmuch detail, but once in White Harbor it seemed Lady Wynafryd was forever visiting the wharf, or the gardens, or tea with visiting second and third sons from throughout the North.  
  
She entered the room and flopped down beside her sister, wrinkling her nose at the smell they had earned from their time in the yard.  
  
"Lord Rickard?" Lady Wylla asked.  
  
"Lord Rickard." Lady Wynafred sighed.  
  
"Do you want to marry...him?" She asked.  
  
Lady Wynafred turned her attention away from her sister, and enquired, "Was that one question or two?"  
  
"Two, I suppose."  
  
"Well, no I do not wish to marry him, and I will not. Yes, I do wish to marry. It's my duty and I would like to create a family of my own.  
  
"But I suspect that question wasn't just about me. I'm to be the heir, I must marry.  
  
"What have you been told about why Ladies - and Princesses - marry?"  
  
"It's our duty to the family, and Mother said it was our duty to the Seven as well." She remembered being told that by Mother and Septa Mordane many times.  
  
"That's part of it."  
  
"Wait, are you betrothed? To whom?" Lady Wylla interjected.  
  
"If she is, it's not public, so we will not ask her whom she might join in marriage." Lady Wynafred lightly chastised her sister. Sometimes she reminded her of Sansa.  
  
"Princess Arya, remind me how old you were the last you saw your mother."  
  
"Eleven."  
  
"That's still quite young. She likely didn't have time to provide the more adult conversations about marriage. If you'll forgive me, I'd like to address why Ladies and Princesses who are not heirs marry."  
  
She gave her assent.  
  
"You are not wrong, duty is a key component. Marriage ties families, regions, and realms together. They strengthen the bonds between a Lord and his bannermen. They bring the perspective of a ruling house into the hall and bed of one of their supporters, which can be vital in times of conflict.  
  
"Marriage provides for children, which are key to he continuance of a region or realm. Come winter, you will see how important every body who labored in the summer is to all of our survival.  
  
"At best, a marriage provides companionship. You are young, but this is something you will seek more of as you grow, and your siblings become more tied to other pursuits and responsibilities.  
  
"Finally, Ladies and Princesses marry for protection. Beyond a certain age, it becomes exceptionally difficult to be unmarried woman if not an heir. One's place and position is dependent on one's siblings. The laws provided that a wife must always be given space in the primary castle, but does not extend that to female relatives. And as one ages, an unmarried woman has no children to care for her, and no coin of her own. One must hope resources and care extends to an aunt and great aunt.  
  
"Now, is it that you don't like whomever you may or may not be betrothed to or you don't want a marriage at all?"  
  
"I don't know." She just kept hearing Sansa’s voice, asking her what she thought of Smalljon and trying to imagine him as her husband forever.  
  
"Your brother, the King, seems a fair and honorable man. He likely would not force you to marry a man you oppose. If I were you, I would seek to determine if you have a true opposition to a potential match or are experiencing the fear of the unknown.  
  
"As for choosing to forgo marriage. That's a choice. But I don't know that I would ever suggest to a woman who is not taking orders as a Septa or Silent Sister. It would be a hard life, with consequences not just for the woman. If she could find even a decent match, I would like it preferable.  
  
"Does that help?"  
  
"I...yes?"  
  
"Good. Think on these things.”

*

She watched Rickon dash by Lord Willas, and saw him unsubtly catch himself from falling. She'd have to have words with Rickon, again.

 

Approaching him, she said, "My apologies, my Lord. Rickon should have been more mindful of his surroundings."

 

He smiled at her. "Not to worry, Princess Sansa. I have three younger siblings, and remember their dashing around Highgarden irrespective of my mother's pleas or the guests in residence. Loras was a bit of a terror before he was sent to squire."

 

She smiled back. "I can hardly imagine the illustrious Knight of the Flowers knocking down guests."

 

"All I'll share in response is that at least your brother wasn't on a horse."

 

"Oh dear."

 

"Yes. Though, his direwolf is not that much smaller."

 

"It's amazing how they've grown. I remember how they were but an armful of fluff when they were first found."

 

"They are truly beautiful beasts."

 

"I'm surprised to hear you say that. Many simply find them terrifying."

 

"No. They simply can't look beyond the teeth. But see your brother's wolf's coat, or gait. That is fine animal - healthy, happy, and powerful. The latter doesn't make it terrifying; it makes it beautiful. Now, I wouldn't want to meet it alone on a battlefield, but that doesn't diminish it."

 

"You like animals." She stated.

 

"Very much. I breed horses, hounds, and hawks at Highgarden."

 

"How lovely."

 

"It's a privilege to care for and guide generations of animals. To watch them grow and work with them, hunting, herding, riding. One of my favorite mares is due to have a foal shortly after I return."

 

As he spoke, his free hand moved, like a hawk circling then petting, as if to try and demonstrate the joy the animals brought him in a language they would understand.

 

"And you, Princess, are you fond of animals?"

 

"Yes. I had a direwolf as well. She was the sweetest companion. So well behaved. Loving. Trusting. Her name was Lady."

 

"It sounds like you loved her very much."

 

"I did. I miss her."

 

"Of course. Certain animals are like members of the family. You always grieve their passing. I had a hound, Flora. Yes, I see that smile, we are a little over fond of flower names. She was a companion, not meant for any practical purpose. She was given to me as a gift from my grandfather at a...challenging time. We grew up together."

 

"She was very important to you."

 

"She was. She passed a year ago - old age. Her absence makes home seem less, though I knew Highgarden for years without her."

 

"Exactly."

 

They stood in companionable silence for several moments. As it stretched, Lord Willas turned to her and asked, "So, you have met Loras?"

 

"And Ser Garlan after the Battle of the Blackwater. They are both impressive and courteous."

 

He inclined his head at the compliment, and added, with a slight sardonic tone, "Good, so my teachings have held. I'm glad they are comporting themselves appropriately in society."

 

"Quite. A credit to the family. They are well?"

 

"Yes, Loras is with my father in King's Landing, while Garlan returned to the Reach. He and Leonette, and their children, are at Highgarden in my absence."

 

"And your sister, Lady Margery? I had heard she was planning to settle in King's Landing and perhaps enter a new betrothal. I'm afraid our time in the city never overlapped."

 

"Margery is with Garlan." He paused, and leaned in closer, and added, a touch conspiratorially, "She was to be betrothed to a man, but my grandmother felt he reminded her too much a man to whom she had been betrothed - a Targaryen."

 

She smiled, emboldened by relief for a girl she'd never met, and added. "One does hear that brothers lying with sisters leads to madness."

 

He shook his head minutely, and said, "Such an odd Targaryen custom.

 

"But no, Margery remains in Highgarden. It is important to find the right match for one's sister. Someone kind and honorable, but also able to provide for her, and see to the use of her own skills."

 

Oh, she thought, that was part of the reason for the Tyrell's presence in Winterfell: trade agreements and perhaps a crown for a daughter already once a queen.

 

That was not to be, but it wouldn't do to insult the second richest family in Westeros, whose tenuous alliance had offered hers much in the way of benefits.

 

"Indeed." She asked Lord Willas, "Have you seen our glass gardens, my Lord?"

 

"No, I have not had the pleasure."

 

"Let me fetch Rickon, and I shall lead you there."

 

She quickly located Rickon and tasked him to be the chaperone, to behave himself, and to use this opportunity to identify the plants Maester Luwin described in lessons.

 

She and Lord Willas made patient progress. He walked intentionally, but not haltingly, supported by his cane. He made it seem as if his slow speed was simply a choice, born out of a careful nature and consideration of her skirts.

 

"The gardens are beautiful, but nothing like those in King's Landing, or I suspect, the famed gardens of your home. They rely on the hot springs and the sun to keep the air inside warm. There are long brooms to sweep the snow off the rooftops."

 

"I can see how that would be important. Heavy, wet winter snows could cause the glass to break, and allow freezing air inside."

 

"Summer snows as well."

 

"Snow is irregular enough in the Reach, I cannot imagine the reaction to it were it to fall in the summer."

 

"As a child it was delightful, all snowball fights and snow castles."

 

They reached the gardens and he opened the door for her. Rickon, already inside, should have taken care of that as well.

 

“For now we have some flowers in the gardens, but they will be replaced shortly with food crops to feel the keep during the winter. In the North, the only flowers come winter are those that grow wild and are hardy in the cold, like the winter rose.”

 

“Ah. I have seen many a rose in Highgarden, but none that could handle the brisk winds of winter.” She turned and walked to the corner where she remembered seeing Father stand in reflection. She plucked a bloom, and extended the blue flower to Lord Willas.

 

“For you, a token of the North.”

 

“Its lovely. It looks like frost.”

 

“Exactly.” They continued walking around the gardens, Lord Willas discussing the flowers of his own home, and asking her about some of the leaves that looked ill and yellow in the corner.

 

Lord Willas was kind and polite to her, and by all reports, quite intelligent. Bran had animatedly recounted an afternoon in the library with him, discussing books and running the Reach. Ser Loras and Ser Garlan had both seemed brave and courteous. She had never met Lady Margery, but if one can be known through one’s family, she had much to recommend her, and the rumors of her beauty must speak to some truth.

 

Also, while Lady Margery could not marry Robb, it would be a shame to let such an opportunity pass wholly by.

 

“These flowers are from the Riverlands. My father planted them to remind Mother of her home. While they bloom here in the spring and fall, these are winter flowers throughout the Trident. Riverrun has rows of them in their gardens.”

 

“I did not know that Riverrun kept such gardens.”

 

“Fish meal makes an excellent fertilizer. Uncle Edmure and I took many turns around them when I visited Mother’s home on my journey back to Winterfell. His leg was injured during the war, and the Maester prescribed walking among the flowers as a part of the cure.”

 

“A Maester fit for the Reach.”


	8. Sansa

Arya found her that evening in her chambers, bag in hand.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Come in. Did you have a good evening with Bran?"

 

"Yes, it was good to spend time with him. He's growing up. When did that happen?" They both laughed a bit at that, but it struck her sometimes, those moments when Bran didn't seem a little boy any longer. "Thank you for recommending it."

 

"He missed you. I did as well." She gestured to the bed and Arya flopped beside her.

 

"Good, I guess." Arya made a bit of a face, like she was unsure how to respond to the sentiment.

 

"It sounds like you had a good visit to White Harbor. The Manderly's letter indicates they have been appeased. His Grace seems relieved to have the issue settled."

 

"It was better than I was expecting. I thought it would be like King's Landing, or King Robert's visit before." She couldn't help but roll her eyes at the tone and Arya's derision at sewing with Princess Myrcella.

 

"I missed you nameday."

 

"White Harbor was far more important."

 

"How did you celebrate?"

 

She smiled at the memory, and related, "Bran and Rickon organized a picnic in the Godswood. They somehow found lemons and convinced the kitchens to make lemon cakes. It was lovely."

 

"Eating outside? I remember a Sansa who would have shuddered at the potential damage to her gown."

 

"We put down a blanket, no reason to be in the mud. Besides, Bran and Rickon love to spend time in the woods. Summer and Shaggy enjoyed a tussle."

 

"And Robb?"

 

"His Grace gifted me some beautiful heavy wool to fashion a dress fit for the coming winter."

 

Arya raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me Robb knew what wool is proper dress material?"

 

"He may have received some direction." She'd picked a steel Stark grey. She'd have to set aside Mother's dresses from Riverrun soon. The winds of late autumn were too much for silk.

 

"Ah. Well I have a gift for you. Gifts really."

 

"That's kind. You shouldn't have."

 

"Robb sent me with coin when I went. Good use for it."

 

Arya fished something out from the bag and presented it. She carefully unbound it from the rough fabric protecting it. It was a knife with a blade the length of her hand and a simple hilt.

 

"I thought...I thought you might like something to keep you safe. I can teach you to use it." Arya stared at its edge lying across her palm.

 

"I - thank you. I'm not sure how good I'd be?" It looked so dangerous. It made her think of Shae and the smell of wildfire. More sure, she responded. "But yes, I'd like that."

 

Arya smiled. "Don't worry, you can't be worse with a knife than Lady Wylla was with a sword."

 

"You taught Lady Wylla to fight?" Her pitch rose with each word.

 

"Oh, don't be like that. She wanted to. Anyways," Arya thrust a medium sized, squishier package forward, "this is also for you."

 

The package held a fine linen and myrish lace in ivory.

 

"Lady Wynafryd picked it out so you could make a shift."

 

"It's beautiful, thank you." She fingered the lace. It was so delicate. It would almost be a shame to hide it.

 

"I love it."

 

"I thought you'd like it. It's pretty."

 

*

_Dear Princess Sansa,_

_Thank you and His Grace for your gracious hospitality during our stay. Your kind efforts made a place so superficially different from the Reach welcoming and comfortable. I took away from my visit a deep affection for the North. It has an austere beauty and its people do it great credit._

_I also wished to write to you about the yellowing leaves we saw during our turn around the glass gardens. I spoke with the gardeners of my home, who are renown throughout the Reach, about the problem. They believe the yellowing reflects an imbalance in the humors of the soil, and recommend planting beans on the land before winter comes. The beans should contribute to your stores, and restore the balance of the soil. Your gardens are clearly important, as well as beautiful, and I hope this advice serves to increase their productivity._

_Thank you again for efforts during our stay._

_Sincerely,_

_Lord Willas Tyrell_

*

 

It was easier with Arya back. Everything ran more smoothly. She checked the math in the ledgers, doing in one hour what would take her two, shared conspiratorial conversations with Bran that made him gleeful befitting his age, and ran about the Godswood with Rickon to his delight.

 

Which meant suddenly she has an hour or two free come evening on the occasions when the King didn't have need of her. It was vaguely terrifying.

 

She was using the time to read through the histories Bran had gathered for her. Tonight it was Princess Arrgela Durrandon – a stormy night for the Storm Queen. Her heart ached for the woman long dead. She wondered if Argella, the Princess cum Queen cum Lady, had ever grown to love or trust Orys Baratheon? How did she live among his bannermen, formerly hers, for the rest of life after they sacrificed her to peace with the Targaryens?

 

A sound outside her door alerted her to a presence. When she opened her chambers, a head of auburn curls and direwolf looked up at her.

 

"Shaggy and I wanted to make sure you weren't scared by the thunder."

 

"How very gallant of you and Shaggy. Thank you." She gave each a kiss. "It is exceptionally loud. Why don't you come in. The hallways are chilly."

 

The pair hurried inside, and descending on her bed, burrowed into her furs.

 

Once Rickon finished wiggling beside her she said, "You seemed displeased at the feast."

 

Feast was a broad word for the supper, which was but one course more than typical, but she thought it had turned out quite nice. They so often had visitors that it would stress the budget to go all out for everyone, but one had to make each feel special. Tonight's guests, several second sons from the mountain clans, had seemed pleased with the venison and decorative dessert she had organized.

 

"No I wasn't." He pouted. She raised an eyebrow at his retort. She sat beside him at most suppers, in the rightmost seat, at the end of the table, and usually spent the meal chatting about his day. But tonight he'd spent the time stabbing his meat and glowering at the table.

 

"Were you angry with me? You wouldn't speak with me throughout supper."

 

"No."

 

"Did you not like the food? I thought the dessert was quite delicious."

 

"No."

 

"Then what seems to be the issue?"

 

"Why do we always have to have people visiting? Can't they just stay home! Its always, Lord This from That and his men, and Robb, Arya, Bran, and you are all busy with them, and I have to wear the itchy good clothes, and stand waiting to receive them instead of time in the woods with Shaggy."

 

"Ah. You understand why they have to come, though? King Robb needs to be accessible to his bannermen, and its important for him to receive reports throughout the kingdom."

 

"I know," he whined.

 

"And it’s your job to be a welcome host to the guests, just as its my job to prepare for their visit."

 

"Yes."

 

"I'll make you a deal. If you can act as a Prince ought all tomorrow, the day after you can skip an hour of lessons to explore with Shaggy?"

 

"Really?"

 

"Yes, but, first you need to tell me what you learned about today." And so he did, of houses, and their colors and phrases. As his words slowed down, she took over, quietly telling of her day. She stopped once it became clear she was speaking only for herself.

 

Rickon’s eyes fluttered with a child’s dreaming sleep and Shaggy huffed beside him. She wondered what they dreamed of. As she settled in beside their warmth, she thought of Orys Baratheon’s bannerwomen. Faced with a threat of complete destruction of Storm’s End, and the loss of their husbands’, sons’, and livelihoods’, the people of Storm’s End found another solution. She brushed Rickon’s hair into some sort of order, and understood a little bit.

_*_

 

_Dear Princess Sansa,_

_Thank you for your kind letter. Do let me know whether the beans are successful._

_In regards to your question about my mare, I did indeed return home before she foaled. She gave birth only a fortnight ago, a beautiful gray and white dappled colt. Already he demonstrates an excellent temperament. He’s very calm. I’ve named him Aster._

_It is indeed nice to have returned home. Garlan and Leonette have since departed for Brightwater’s Keep, but even a brief visit with my brother and his wife was a joy. They have two small children and I love Highgarden all the more when it rings with their voices. I brought their daughter, Alyssane, down to the stables to meet Aster, shortly before they left. They made quite a pair: her clumsy toddler hands patting a foal barely able to stand. If Aster maintains his temperament, he will make her a beautiful companion as they grow together._

_Speaking of visiting siblings, how has it been to have your sister back at Winterfell? I regret we met only briefly at White Harbor, but she seemed a bright and spirited young woman. One of the challenges of age is how it forces physical distance from one’s siblings, though I find it makes me appreciate their company all the more._

_Best wishes,_

_Lord Willas_


	9. Sansa

_Dear Princess Sansa,_

_I’m heartened to hear how good it is to have your sister back at Winterfell. I can imagine how, after such time separated by the war and your mutual losses, that the chance to be with Princess Arya is a comfort._

_As you noted, one of the greatest boons of growing older is the manner in which the years between siblings warp and shrink with the passing of the moons. The seemingly insurmountable barriers of age and maturity, previously bolstered by petty childish sturm and drang, can settle into a deep love and understanding that is really unlike any other. Certainly adult cares can render it asunder, we all know of a family so damaged, but I consider myself blessed by the relationships with my siblings._

_Garlan and I were always close, partners in crime since our time in the nursery, but Loras, and Margaery especially, were more of a surprise. I remember when Margaery was a slip of a girl – always bright and loving, but also so much my junior – however, as we grew, and both remained at Highgarden, the original imbalance of years faded away. Now, that was partially as my sister thought herself grown by ten, and spoke with the self-possession of an adult from then on, but too I grew to greatly value her presence and counsel as peer._

_Besides, as you surely know, any trusted partner able to share the many tasks and burdens of a region is welcome. With my father so often absent from the Reach, Margaery and I spend much of our time helping my mother and acting as my father’s agent. It is something for which she is quite adept._

_While I selfishly would keep her nearby, I know she dreams for more than a life in our home, and I hope to find a place that is both appropriate, but also right. I know how well she is able to assist with the Reach Lords and smallfolk alike, and would find her a match such that she could use those skills, but also with lord who give her the love and respect that is her due._

_We spoke of the Riverlands during my visit to your home. I wonder if you might tell me more of your Uncle?_

_I hope you are well, and your projects continue apace. How goes transitioning the gardens? Were you able to finish Maester Teffin’s_ Age of Aegon _? Be well._

_Best,_

_Lord Willas_

 

*

 

_Dear Lord Willas,_

_It is so lovely to her your write of your siblings. You imbue your words with a deep affection. I don’t think I truly comprehended how important mine were for me until I spent time absent from them. I am thankful that I was granted the opportunity to know them after, once I grew into my understanding._

_I have not spent a great deal of time with my Uncle, but I am pleased to write you recommending him. I found he is best described by one word, kindness, a virtue I find underappreciated in the world. He is kind and loving to his family, which I know myself, but also to those at Riverrun and beyond under his care. He is a man built for love._

_Despite having spent so little time together, I feel more secure in my words about Uncle Edmure because I could see in him the reflections of my mother. Her lessons and guidance shone through his words and actions. My grandmother, Minisa, died when he was a boy and she took over his care and instruction. Surely she taught him as she did us, how to be kind but fair, and that as a Tully, one must remember their trio of responsibilities: to family, to duty, and to honor._

_I believe he will thrive in partnership with someone able to build with kindness. I would be heartened for him to make a match characterized by love and support._

_I myself am well. We’ve removed all the flowers from the glass gardens. Many were preserved, tied in batches and hung upside down throughout the castle to capture a bit more of their beauty. We don’t waste it in the North. During winter, the dried arrangements will bring color to the halls and remind all that summer will come again. For the weeks while they hung, the most brilliant perfume filled Winterfell. Perhaps it is always such at Highgarden, but to close my eyes and feel surrounded by both the solid protective warmth of the walls and scent of beauty is a memory I will treasure. I spirited away a few of my favorite blooms, and smile to see them every morning, including winter roses and the goldenrod from Riverrun I showed you._

_By the time this letter arrives to you, I will indeed have completed the_ Age of Aegon _. I have always enjoyed reading, especially songs of love, but now I find myself more drawn to the histories. It’s surprising, how stories of so long ago, can illuminate one’s present. I found particularly interesting how these tales of the Conquest explain our world as now. I believe you recommended the book to Bran during your visit, so I also owe you thanks. Bran and I discuss the stories over the fire some evenings. Sometimes, the same words can leave with us with completely differing perspectives, but talking through them is a real pleasure and an intellectual exercise I enjoy now that my time for lessons has passed. He also has a better head for the battles. He has selected my next tome, Maester Broome’s_ Kings of Winter.

_I hope my words have helped. Let me know if there is more I can do. If Lady Margaery might leave Highgarden for further climbs, wherever they may be, do you have plans you’d like to accomplish together before she is gone? How was the hunt you were preparing? Did the hawks perform well?_

_Regards,_

_Princess Sansa_

 

*

Robb departed the solar, leaving Arya and herself, while he went to reply to the letter from Lord Mortmont. The news from the wall had grown more unnerving. Jon’s accompanying letter told them not to expect to hear from him for many moons. He was off to meet with the wildlings. She worried for him.

 

“I have a question,” Arya interjected into the quiet. “Why do you always call Robb, ‘His Grace,’ ‘Your Grace,’ or ‘King Robb?’ I understand when we are in public, propriety and all that, but you do it even when it’s just us.”

 

“He’s my king, what else would I call him?”

 

“Robb! He’s your brother. You’ve known him your entire life, including far before he was your king.”

 

“His status as King takes precedence over his status as my brother.”

 

“No, he’s family.” Arya retorted.

 

“There were never any Tully Kings.”

 

“What?” Arya sounded confused at the conversational divergence.

 

“The Tullys were never the Kings of the Trident, just the Lords Paramount. Do you remember Maester Luwin teaching us about the Tully words.”

 

“They are ‘Family, Duty, Honor’ and you cannot say all three at once. Family must come first.” Arya parroted in the sing-song of a child’s lesson.

 

“A King, a good King, must always put Duty first. And His Grace is a good King.”

 

*

 

“Princess Sansa, another letter?” Maester Luwin enquired, an uncertain tone to his voice.

 

“Yes, thank you.” She refused to blush at the unstated comment.

 

“To Highgarden again? You sent a letter less than a week past.” Willas had responded quite positively to her description of Uncles Edmure. He wrote that she and her siblings spoke so well to her mother’s parenting, that he was sure Edmure could be naught but the same. She had promised to write to her Tully relatives in return, and now she had.

 

“No not this time.   Its to Uncle Edmure at Riverrun.” The letter related that were he interested, Lady Margaery Tyrell remained unmarried and was looking to make a favorable match for herself and her family. She noted that he would be seen as such, and could expect a raven from Highgarden. She demurred, that of course he might choose to marry within the Riverlands, but that she wished to inform of the opportunity, were he interested in allying with the Reach – and the exceptional dowry that came with the wedding. She then turned to family matters: King Robb’s successes in the North, Arya’s slightly unorthodox but effective approach to the tasks of court, Bran’s academic prowess, and Rickon’s adventures. Of herself, she wrote that she had pleasantly settled into the rhythm of running Winterfell, and was a little surprised to find it to be true.

 

“Ah, good.” He responded.

 

“Good?” she asked, unable to restrain herself from responding when faced judgment from a man who had known her literally since birth.

 

“Princess – Sansa – you know you cannot go South, do you not?”

 

“I am exceptionally aware. King Joffrey made it quite clear what he would do, were I found south of the Neck.”

 

He had provided explicit detail in the last few days before her departure.

 

“Besides, irrespective of King Joffrey, it would be considered highly problematic by the Northern houses were I to leave the North.”

 

“Yes, exactly.” They stood in silence for a few moments. Then the Maester, who had brought her into the world and tended to all her childish hurts, added, “Be careful. The head and the heart can have difficulty reconciling.”


	10. Sansa

She tried to force herself not to be disappointed. She refused to admit that she was counting the number of days since a letter should have arrived. They had fallen into a rhythm of correspondence since that first letter, dispatching a response as soon as the prior letter arrived. At this point, she was quite familiar with the time it took a raven to wing from Highgarden to Winterfell, and it should have arrived nearly a moon before – well, a fortnight and a half.

 

Ravens were waylaid sometimes. Perhaps that was it.

 

Not that it mattered. The unstated purpose of their letters had been to shepherd a connection between Uncle Edmure and Lady Margery, and that had been accomplished. In his last letter Willas had written that the Tyrells would be writing to Riverrun to suggest a visit, and she had sent her own raven to Riverrun to illuminate the former. Any further developments were out of their hands and left to the actual couple at issue.

 

But, she had thought that perhaps the letters would continue. Willas had such a way with a pen, it made her feel like she had grown to know Highgarden. She enjoyed his descriptions of his hounds and horses, Aster especially. His reflections on his siblings were fascinating and kind. They made her think about the way she saw her brothers and sister and provided interesting guidance about siblings as one set childhood aside.

 

But it didn’t appear that was the case. It was better this way, she reminded herself. She had reached a détente with the broader Winterfell community – she shouldn’t remind them of their prior prejudices and shouldn’t risk them loudly associating her with the South again. Besides, there was much to do around Winterfell. She didn’t need the distraction of silly letters from a place she’d never go.

 

Summer dogged her heals as she headed to fetch Bran and Rickon from lessons at mid-day. They were going to spend the afternoon with her, learning about running a keep.

 

“Princess Sansa, you had a raven.” Maester Luwin extended a letter with a rose seal in green.

 

She did not smile, but she had to make an active effort to refrain. A bit of a bounce in her step remained throughout the day.   Bran commented on it as she sat with him before bed.

 

“It was a beautiful day, and I had the chance to spend much of it with two of my favorite people.” She dissembled. It had been fun. The boys had been well behaved, and it would be important for them to understand the tasks necessary to run a keep.

 

“To be honest, what you do all day is boring.” Bran declared. She laughed.

 

“I supposed, but that boredom prevents a great deal of unfortunate excitement. How would you like to be without clothes, or supper, or candles with which to read.”

 

“I suppose it would depend.”

 

“Bran!” she chastised.

 

“Everyone stumbling about in the dark could be funny.”

 

“If you wish to jape, feel free to push your chair along with you eyes closed. I could do with a laugh as you run into the walls. Not near he stairs, mid you. Now, you need to go to bed, and I do as well.” She kissed his forehead and stood.   “Sleep well.”

 

“Sansa,” she turned to face him, “thank you. It was a good day.”

 

"For me as well."

 

That evening she sat down to unfurl the letter and allowed her fingers to ghost over the familiar script of her name.

 

_Dear Princess Sansa,_

_I am sorry for my delay responding to your last letter. In terms of our past correspondence, I am happy to report that Lord Edmure responded quite positively to the suggestion that a Tyrell host visit Riverrun, and Margaery and Garan shall depart for Riverrun in a moon’s time._

_I am not sure if the news made it to the North yet, but I am saddened to relate my Father’s passing. He took ill in King’s Landing and died soon after. The past weeks have been full of logistics: returning his bones to Highgarden and burying them among flowers, as is our custom. My mother is distraught. I pray that the Stranger made his path easy and the Mother welcomed him into the Seven Heavens with open arms._

_It seems so strange to know he is gone. Though in recent years, he has spent much time outside the Reach, while I managed affairs at home, there was a steady comfort in knowing he was out in the world. In some ways nothing has changed – my day-to-day tasks remain the same and he was never one for many letters, but the knowledge that he is not with us, but with the Gods, feels like a gapping hole when I allow myself to think on it. I wish I could force my mind to shy away from the thought._

_While I have administered the Reach during Father’s absence – and of course knew I would be its lord one day – it’s a shock to have this day here, and so soon. As the bannermen came to pay their respects, I found myself perseverating on Father, and how he would treat each of the men, despite the fact that I have independent relationships with many. But to suddenly be their lord, it makes me question so many things._

_I apologize for this letter. I would claim its disjointed nature is a reflection of my lack of time to give it true attention, but I’m sure its more a reflection of the manner in which my mind dashes about at this moment. I know you too have suffered these hardships and hope my words don’t bring you grief._

_I hope you and yours are well. I’ll be sure to write with any further developments regarding Riverrun._

_Best,_

_Willas_

 

*

 

_Dear Willas,_

_My deepest condolences on the lost of your father. I only met Lord Mace twice, but on both occasions he seemed a fine man. He spoke with warmth of his family and I imagine he brought that love to you and your siblings._

_I know how viscerally the loss of one’s parents can cut. They are our loadstar, and then suddenly gone. You feel dizzyingly adrift, both in terms of the questions and situations you might have posed to them, secure in the knowledge they would have handled them with greater grace and wisdom than you could bring to bear, but also, in the other, quieter moments. Not when their knowledge is wanted, but just their presence. The world seems a more terrible, chaotic, and cruel place without the knowledge that they are out in it._

_I wish I could tell you all of this fades, but, in my experience, it does not. The sense of loss remains, though the disorientation reduces to a simmer from a rolling boil._

_I found it was in settling into the role previously held by my mother where some of the greatest dissonance occurred. Though it is certainly not equivalent to the role of Lord Paramount, for me it sometimes felt as if I was mummer, playing at being my Mother. In some ways, this was good. She excelled at running Winterfell, and I think I have learned much in echoing her rhythms and efforts. But not even the most skilled performer could be for my younger brothers the mother they lost. I have tried, and often failed. I attempt to focus on providing them what she gifted me: love, safety, constancy, and pride._

_You will find your way – to take the lessons your father taught, and your own unique skills to rise to this role. You already know the rhythms of the task, now you must add your words to the song._

_I shall pray for you and your family.   May the Old Gods and the New watch over you all._

_In solace,_

_Sansa_


	11. Willas, Robb, Sansa

Garlan wandered into the library and sat before him. 

"Is it already time for supper?"

"No, I want to discuss something with you before I leave for the Riverlands tomorrow. You've seemed distracted the last week. Is it just Father, and everything surrounding his death," Garlan swept his arm as if to encompass the whole of the Reach, now fully his responsibility, "or is there something else specific?"

"Everything. But, perhaps I’ve also come to a realization that may have thrown me for a loop."

"Oh?"

"I made the foolish mistake of falling in love."

Garlan looked a taken aback. Clearly this was not the answer he expected. "With whom? Why foolish? Is she married?"

"Not married and foolish because it cannot be."

"Is she of a wholly unsuitable profession?" An eye-roll was a sufficient answer.

"Is it a man?"

"I leave that to Loras." He takes a deep breath and continues. "You know I have been corresponding with Princess Sansa. Our letters have not been solely about Margery's marriage prospects."

"Oh Willas."

"I knew I enjoyed speaking with her at Winterfell, found her quite beautiful, and anticipated her letters. But, I found myself sharing more than I expected in my letter after Father's death, and her response, on parental loss and the challenges of taking up the roles set down, brought me such comfort. It made me reexamine all my feelings with regards to her."

"Willas.” Garlan began.

“I know.”

“Its just not an option. Irrespective of how the bannermen might react to the King’s actions towards her person, especially as you have just taken up the task of ruling, it would needlessly antagonize the King."

"I know, I did acknowledge it as foolish." He looked down to the writings and met Garlan's gaze. "Our plan is sound. Marrying the King's former betrothed would be a declaration, and divergence from the plan. I know all these things in my head, but my heart is still at the stage of awakening to its desires and has not caught up to the head's commands."

“You will have to marry, eventually. Someone who won’t draw the King’s ire.” 

“I know that as well. But let’s at least let the seedlings on Father’s grave bloom before we return to this topic .”

"What will you do?"

"Learn how to become a Lord Paramount and hope that the demands of such a position distract me." 

*  
The news from the wall was worrisome. They wanted to resettle the wildling women and children in the Gift? He understood the Lord Commander's logic, and Jon's letter argued passionately in favor, but that would cause an uproar.

Though, if the North was to be independent it would need an influx of population to fight the South, whether or not this army of the dead the wildlings (and some of the Watch) speak of exists. Plus, winter was coming, and hadn't he already seen too many women and children harmed, collateral during the battles for independence? The Gift wasn't much, but it was evidentially more hospitable than north of the Wall.

But would the bannermen listen? 

And would the wildling's kneel?

Could they all survive the winter together?

What if the Lannisters had been but a preview?

He stewed on this, barely greeting Sansa when she joined him. She sat, reading a large history tone from the library.

"Does everything ever feel too big, like no decision you make will be right?"

She looked up, startled. 

He continued, trying to quiet the questions on loop. "I yearn for whatever advice Father would have offered advice on how to be King."

"Father wouldn't have been King," she responded, then flushed, as if surprised at her words. "Though," she continued slowly, "the realm would have been better off with him than King Robert."

"Aye."

They sat in silence for a few moments before she offered, "I often wonder what Mother might have done. Early on, I thought it would be questions of how to fill her shoes: what to set aside for winter or how to run the keep. But, it's not. Its always about people."

"I received letters from the Wall. Jon and the Lord Commander report from their meetings with the wildlings. They speak of great threats. They want to relocate the wildlings children, aged, and non-warrior women to the Gift."

Sansa looked at him in shock. 

"The Watch wants to move wildlings south of the Wall? Our enemy within our walls? The threat is that great?"

"So they say. They say the deaths of the wildlings could increase the threat to the North."

"The bannermen..."

"I know."

"They will all die if they do not move? The wildlings? Even the children?

"Jon believes they will. He was quite adamant the enemy was not one to spare any."

"The children, they shouldn't - they shouldn't suffer and die for the actions of their ancestors."

"I don't want to condemn them to death."

"How would they survive without stores?"

"Jon says they are good hunters, catching game even the most adept Northmen would miss. He writes he lived among them during the negotiations."

"And the men, what would happen to them?"

"They would move the forces of warriors to the shadow of the wall, and at which point the Lord Commander is convinced of the necessity, he would bring them up to the ramparts." Sansa sucked in a breath. Wildlings, an enemy from their histories, older and more fearsome than the South, on the Wall. 

"Mortmont doesn't state it aloud, but he seems to believe the truth of this greater threat. Jon is explicit in his belief. He claims to have seen the Others."

"Then it's to be done."

"Yes."

"And the bannermen?"

"I will figure something out."

They sat for a beat, overwhelmed by the action to be taken. He wondered if his ancestors were rolling over in the crypts. Would Father have agreed?

"You received a letter today was well?"

Sansa nodded, a slight smile on her face.

"I suspect you will receive one from Riverrun soon, speaking of a betrothal."

"That would be a great boon." A little over a moon before, Sansa had told him how the Tyrells were interested in marrying their daughter to Edmure. It was a break in fortune. The Tyrells wouldn't let Lannister forces ravage the Riverlands again. They would protect a people who were his, but no longer - an entire realm he had failed. And, with their joining in a sept, the threat to the North would diminish unless the South wanted to launch a sea assault. It would give them necessary time to rebuild Moat Cailin.

"Thank you. I know your efforts helped bring this betrothal into being. It will strengthen the North."

"Uncle Edmure wishes he were still your bannerman. This will be good match - and beneficial for the Riverlands as well." 

She took a deep breath and offered, "With regards to the wildlings, some of your bannermen lost men in the war they need to prepare for winter. If you offer that those who have need of help can welcome wildlings onto their land, it may ease some of their discomfort. It would also encourage the wildlings to fold into the culture of the North."

"It would be a relief to quiet the requests for able bodied men echoing from some corners of the kingdom." Those ravens were frustratingly common, as if they thought he had some stores of extra men hiding within Winterfell.

"You might also ask some of the houses to foster children through the winter. It would reduce the strain on the Gift and protect the children within the walls of the keeps, which might encourage the wildlings to agree. In return, it will teach them our ways for when they return to their people come spring. It may help, if some want to remain south of the Wall."

"I'll think on it." They settled back into companionable silence.

One decision made, but convincing the bannermen would be a challenge. For all he was the king, he was sure they would have preferred Father - someone older and wiser.

"Speaking of betrothal, I believe now may be the time for my marriage to Lady Alys." 

Sansa stilled, and met his eyes. "Indeed, it would offer chance to bring all of the North to court for the wedding."

"Yes. Two and a half moons should be enough time for everyone to gather at Winterfell. I'll ask Jon, and others from the Wall, to come and explain the reasoning behind moving the wildlings onto our lands. If we have to bear arms facing north rather than south, it is better if they have fair warning, and time to prepare for a winter war."

Sansa nodded vaguely.

"Lady Alys, will she wish me to stay on running Winterfell once she is Queen?"

"I don't know. We've only met once as adults. I'll ask in my letter about planning." He stood and bid her good sleep. There were many letters to draft tonight.

*

The royal wedding was less than three moons away. Soon Winterfell would have a proper Lady and Queen. Would she want to take her rightful place administrating the keep? 

No? Right? A Queen would have far more important tasks to do than concerning herself with stores and planning for winter.

Queen Cersei would never have dirtied her hands with such tasks.

But that was unfair, Lady Alys was a good Northwoman. It was cruel to even consider of her in the same thought as Queen Cersei.

Lady Alys would have been trained to run a Northern keep, just as she had. Court was smaller at Winterfell than in King's Landing. The North would not stand for such extravagances. Doing her duty as both Lady and Queen would endear her to others.

But that would be a great deal of work. Lady Alys likely wouldn't want to take on the task while concerned with court and raising the children soon to follow.

Right?

She tried to imagine Winterfell without the work that filled her days. What would she do with herself if not running the keep? Meeting with steward and small folk? Coordinating their needs?

She had no role in court. 

It would be days of nothingness. Like the white outs of the coming blizzards.

No one to speak to, no tasks, a small and shrinking existence.

She glimpsed Arya in the hall. 

"Arya," she hissed "you must not act you did at dinner!"

"What?" Arya spun around to face her, going red.

"Don't ignore the visitors to speak with whomever is also sitting at the head table from Winterfell."

"I didn't!"

"You did, Lady Cerwyn noticed."

Arya was generally so much better behaved than she had been as a child, and had accepted many of the duties court thrust upon her, but sometimes her refusal to follow proper etiquette was so frustrating!

She had enquired about Smalljon just once since her return from White Harbor. Once she discovered he was north, delivering supplies and correspondence to the Wall and spending time with his father at Last Hearth, Arya had seemed to give him no thought.

Arya should not just ignore him, and her potential betrothal.

"I spoke with her, and met in her solar after supper for some interminable discussion with her and the other ladies. You're wrong!" Arya pointed emphatically.

Then, she stilled her angry gestures.

"No.”

“What?” She enquired.

“I won't fight with you on this now. We can discuss it tomorrow. We still haven't practiced with your knife. Perfect time to learn."

Arya turned and walked away, leaving her in the hallway, alone.


	12. Sansa

The King looked uncomfortable when she joined him that evening. They had been meeting regularly to plan his wedding. The skies had been full with ravens, and she kept her days busy provisioning for the feasts and the task of welcoming so many bannermen and their forces. She was well acquainted with the fact that it was harder to worry when one's hands and days were full.

 

"Your Grace." She dipped her head and made a slight curtsy upon entering.

 

"Sansa. I wanted to speak with you before Arya joined us. I had a raven from Lady Alys."

 

A flood of heat suffused her body. She forced her breath not to hitch and meted out the steady question, "What does Lady Alys say?"

 

"We had talked earlier about whether you would stay in your current role, or if Lady Alys would take over the running of the keep and lands once she and I marry."

 

"Yes."

 

"Lady Alys intends to take on the care of the keep, as would be her duty."

 

So that was it. Of course Lady Alys would want to take up the tasks. To do otherwise might create the image among the North that she was greedy and lazy. Lady Alys wanted to be loved and respected as Queen. She could understand that.

 

"I will help her in whatever ways I can."

 

"Thank you." He rolled back his shoulders, and continued speaking. "I have been thinking about what will come after the wedding and the winter. The Neck will likely be the first incursion points, should the Lannisters try to move against the North again. We are rebuilding Moat Cailin. Making it a proper castle and keep, not just towers. Given its importance, I will need to have the upmost trust in it's Lord. I thought to give Rickon command of the castle once he's grown. He should be a man before winter is out."

 

Good, that was good. Third sons were often left little, and while Rickon would have been content serving as a member of the King's guard - but not Kingsguard, never the Kingsguard - as the spare princes had done in the many histories she read, this would provide him much more. He would have power and status, and the chance for a family of his own.

 

"That's wise, and would be a good position for him. I know Bran will remain in Winterfell as your advisor, but Rickon would succeed with a more active position."

 

"Given the threats from the North, as well as the South, and the potential disruption with the resettlement of the wildlings, I thought it might be more prudent were the entire family not to remain at Winterfell. Our hold on the North is more secure, now, and a clear line of succession doesn't need to be on display for every visitor. Also, if the Gods are good, Lady Alys and I will have an heir soon."

 

She frowned, confused. The rushing sound that had filled her ears since he had explained Lady Alys' wishes were making it difficult to ascertain his meaning.

 

"Do you mean to foster him to train as a Lord, your Grace? I do not know if that would be wise. As Father used to say, he has a bit of the wolf's blood."

 

"No, I thought he might go to Moat Cailin, since he is to be it's Lord. Familiarity with the rebuilding process would only help in times of battle, and will endear him to the men to whom he will become liege."

 

"Oh."

 

"I thought, seeing as you have been so talented at running Winterfell and have taken his education and upbringing into hand, that you might go with him, if you are willing. Help set up and run the keep there, while continuing to mould him into a Lord and Prince."

 

"Of course, your Grace."

 

"I'm afraid conditions may be rough, and there will be a good deal to do."

 

"Better to start now then to wait until spring and an invasion force."

 

"Exactly."

 

Her thoughts were swirling. There was so much to do. Not only just the wedding planning, but also preparing a move to Moat Cailin. She would need to correspond with the castellan and establish quite what "rough" meant. She remembered the uncomfortable process of traveling North, after the war. She wouldn't like to live in that manner day in and day out.

 

But, were that the case, at least there would be tasks to do, if not a position or a long term future.

 

*

 

"You must stand still. I shouldn't like to stab you with my needle." She chastised Rickon. The threat of pain caused his wiggling to still somewhat. Rickon was mostly provisioned for the royal wedding already. She'd prepared fine clothes for him and Bran earlier, in case they were needed to appear as the King's heirs at any point, but alterations were needed to keep up with the growing boy.

 

"King Robb has spoken with you? About the plans for after the wedding and later?"

 

"I'm to be the Lord of Moat Cailin when I'm grown. It's a castle that will be important after the winter to protect us from the South. You and I and Shaggy will travel down with his men after the wedding as they return to their homes."

 

"And what do you think of that?"

 

"I like the idea of protecting the North. No armies will make it past my castle." He declared proudly.

 

"How do you feel about leaving Winterfell?"

 

His brow furrowed under his reddish-brown curls.

 

"Will there be woods to explore there?"

 

"Yes," she said with a smile, "but you'll need to be mindful until you grow used to its unique dangers. Now exploring alone. You must take someone else with you, and Shaggy doesn't count - a person."

 

"All right. And there won't be court there?"

 

"No, Moat Cailin is being rebuilt, so it is mostly soldiers, carpenters, and stonemasons."

 

"That sounds good. I hate court. People coming and going. Getting in the way. Being rude. And having to be be polite and proper."

 

"You'll still have to be polite and proper at Moat Cailin. You'll be the Lord one day...but perhaps fewer fine clothes."

 

"Good!"

 

"Now, turn." He spun, putting his back to her, while she turned her eyes to the cuffs of his trousers.

 

"I'll miss Bran and Arya." He said, quietly.

 

"Of course. And they'll miss you. You should write them. It will be good practice for your letters."

 

"Sansa."

 

"Yes, Rickon?"

 

"I'm glad you'll be coming with me."

 

"Me too. Me too."

 

*

_Dear Sansa,_

_I am happy to report that Garlan, Leonette, and most importantly Margaery have arrived at Riverrun. They report the journey was uneventful, and have been delighted by the beauty of your mother's home and the reception they have received from your uncles. The lush beauty along the river, even as autumn shades into winter, reminded her of the Mander. Margaery writes that she finds Lord Edmure much in line with your description, and he has been a thoughtful host to the many visiting Tyrells. Garlan finds him a fine man._

_I am cautiously optimistic that their baggage, which appeared comically large when they departed moons ago, will indeed turn out exactly the cloaks and dresses needed during their stay._

_While they parents attend to Margaery, Alyssane and Olwyn remain at Highgarden with myself and their grandmother. She has been understandably subdued since Father's death, and the needs of the children, and way they put aside sadness to play and laugh and live has been a balm for her, and the whole household. Alyssane has become my assistant, accompanying me on my inspections of the horses and hounds, when the needs of the Reach allow me to step away for a moment. She and Aster make quite a pair when the groom leads the yearling and girl who has yet to see five name days around the paddock._

_It's my favorite part of the day._

_How has the wedding planning progressed? How are you juggling the magnitude of the number of visitors and the event’s purpose? Did you indeed receive the responses from even the most farflung of the Northern houses? I hope you have taken some time to rest amid the joyous preparations._

_I hope to have tales to relate of another wedding in my next letter._

_Be well,_

_Willas_

 

*

 

She didn’t respond to Willas’s most recent letter within a few days of receipt, as was her custom. She wasn’t sure what to tell him. She cowardly did not want to be at Winterfell to receive a response. There was much to distract her during the day, preparing for the wedding and her departure. It was only at night, when she thought of him that the anxiety of her response ate at her.

 

After a fortnight, her delay began to shame her. Finally, the day Jon was due to arrive, she told herself she could be brave, and sat down to draft the letter.

 

_Dear Willas,_

_Thank you for your last letter. I delighted in reading that your siblings have taken to Riverrun. I did as well. I am gladdened that Ser Garlan finds Uncle Edmure to be a good match for your sister. I know he would treat her with kindness and respect his family words of “family, duty, honor.”_

_I apologize for my tardy response. The effort of organizing a wedding and the ensuing guests can be challenge. My days have been busy with thoughts of feasts and housing visitors from throughout the North. Guests have already started to arrive, and the wedding itself will occur in less than a fortnight._

_In addition to His Grace’s marriage, I have also been planning a move for myself and Rickon to Moat Cailin. He will become its Lord when he is grown. I shall assist with its reconstruction and setting up a household. It will be an interesting challenge, to manage a keep that is also a key military installation, and endowed with such history._

_During the Targaryen-era Moat Cailin fell into some disrepair; lest its upkeep been seen as a provocation necessitating a dragon’s visit. There is not a Maester, though one is already traveling north from Oldtown and may indeed arrive before I do. Currently, the rookery is quite depleted, with only a few ravens for Northern locations. As such, this will have to be my last letter for the foreseeable future._

_I wish to tell you how I have treasured our correspondence and will miss your stories of Highgarden and your family, and the advice you offer on mine._

_As no letter will follow, please forgive my presumption in offering advice where none was requested. From our words when you were at Winterfell, to your letters, it is clear to me that you are loving man who delights in his family. In the letters where you related your niece and nephew’s visits, you wrote with such joy, humor, and longing. I implore you to take the love you have and to create a family of your own. I am sure there is a lady in the Reach who would make you a good wife and loving mother. You have much to give, you ought to open yourself up to the blessings of the Gods._

_If these words have offended, please forgive, for they are written with a deep regard._

_Sansa_


	13. Sansa, Arya, Sansa

Arya had been visibly vibrating with excitement all week. Bran had been only slightly more composed and Rickon's behavior had reflected their emotions, though she doubted he remembered much of Jon.  She knew his memories of Father were fleeting; she tried to ignore the turning of her stomach such thoughts always brought her.  
  
She couldn't deny she was eager to see him again, though now that he was due to arrive she was appreciative.  They were at once both too distant and intimate.  
  
When the black brothers - her brother - entered the gates, the King and Arya were there to greet him. She was in the kitchens, coordinating the feast sizes for the coming days. The boys found him soon after their lessons. With all there was to prepare, she didn't catch sight of him until that evening.   
  
When she stepped into the hall for supper, her breath caught, in her throat. He looked so much like Father.      
  
He looked grown, fully a man now. He looked settled, like he had found a place.  He spoke with Robb and the boys with a quiet confidence. It was only with Arya that he seemed like the boy she remembered playing with Robb at monsters and maidens.  
  
She woke early, sure that he would be used to such hours from the Wall, but also that Arya, Bran, and his Grace would still be abed.  
  
"Enter," Jon responded to her knock. "Sansa. Good morning?"  
  
His hair was disheveled and he looked only half prepared for the day. She had dressed in one of the few gowns she had that had not been Mother's. Her hair was she always wore it, twisted from her temples before it was gathered at the back of the head, braided, and the tucked into itself. It was a tight coif. She always enjoyed the feeling of letting it down at the end of the day.  
  
"Good morning. I'm glad to catch you before the day. Pardon my lack of attention yesterday. The preparations are all consuming."  
  
"Winterfell looks well.” He smiled. “It clearly reflects your efforts. We never had as many visitors as are already in residence at any time I remember."  
  
"Some are more anticipated than others. It's good to have you back within Winterfell's walls."  
  
"It's nice to be back. To see everyone, especially after the last few years."   
  
"The pack survives." She intoned.  
  
Jon laughed a bit at Father's old aphorism repeated back at him.  
  
"It does Somehow. Though, I haven't seen Lady since my arrival? Where does one hide a fully grown direwolf?"  
  
"Oh. She was killed, in the South.  The direwolves unnerved the Lannisters."  
  
"I'm so sorry."  Jon was always telling her he was sorry, it seemed.   
  
"It was a long time ago. Her bones were buried at Winterfell, at least. As it should be."  
  
They both watched Ghost, where he lay, stretched out like a boneless puppy before the fireplace.  
  
"How are your accommodations?" She asked.  "Do you or the other members of the Watch need anything?"  
  
"No, everything is well appointed. Thank you for these rooms." He waived to the bedchamber. It appeared quite humble. The room was small and unremarkable, but she was glad Jon had understood the sentiment behind the placement.  
  
"I thought after your time north of the Wall, you could do with some of the warmest rooms in the keep."  
  
"It's a nice change."  
  
She took a deep breath, and said, "I wanted to thank you, in person, for the letter you sent. It meant a great deal."  
  
"Of course. I meant all of it. I'm glad," he looked down before meeting her eyes, "glad it was the right thing to say."  
  
"Your words brought me much comfort. They were kind."  She had read them only once, but had carried the letter with her for a week.  
  
She quickly changed topics, "I wanted to stop by this morning to collect the shirt you wore yesterday. I can take it to be mended and laundered."  
  
"Oh, thank you, are you sure?  It would be fine for another day."  
  
"Of course." She gestured for him to fetch the garment.   
  
It had fit well, for all it needed some attention. It would serve as a good template for the new shirt she needed to finish for Jon before the wedding and meetings with the Lords. As soon as she had heard he was coming, she had purchased a bolt of black wool, fine enough for a royal wedding, but warm for his return to the Wall.   
  
"Thank you," Jon said, handing her the folded shirt. "You know, your Mother would be proud of you. Lady Catelyn ran Winterfell well, as you are. And Bran and Rickon are bright and happy. I understand you are the one to take their education and upbringing in hand."  
  
She colored slightly. Jon and Mother had a fraught relationship. But none of that shaded his tone. He said this with nothing but admiration in his voice.   
  
"Thank you. I hope so.  Father would certainly feel much the same about you. You serve the Watch so well. You've engendered such trust that the Lord Commander relies on you to be his steward and travel on his behalf to the wildlings and Winterfell. And, it seems, have been protecting us all."  
  
"It's important work. I'm proud to contribute. What we're doing here, this week, will be vital, but also right and honorable.  Robb is making a difficult, but good, decision."    
  
"I'm glad the children will be safe."  
  
"Yes." Jon huffed out a sigh, resembling wolf himself. "Speaking of children, Rickon says you are both to leave Winterfell after the wedding. You're headed for Moat Cailin?"  
  
"Yes. Rickon is to become the castle's Lord.  It's important for him to grow to know his keep, and his men to know him."  
  
"Moat Cailin is said to be quite...rough. How do you feel about accompanying him there?"  
  
Her face must have reflected some of her own internal disquiet, because Jon frowned and continued. "I'm sure there's a way for you to remain here at Winterfell. I can't imagine an unfinished castle in winter is much a place for Ladies, er, Princesses."  
  
She wasn't quite sure how to explain that just as she worried about leaving Winterfell's safety, as she was anxious that Moat Cailin could mean relative deprivation, and as her stomach roiled at each inch it would bring her closer to Joffrey and his forces, that at least she'd have something to do there. That she's have some sort of purpose for her life. That if she remained here, her body might be safe, but she worried she might disappear.  
  
"Life on the Wall sounds harrowing.  I'm sure there would be an place on Robb's council in you wanted it."  
  
Jon furrowed his brow and began, "Sansa, I'm a man of the Night's Watch..."  
  
"You had to leave to find your place," she continued.  "I must do the same."  
  
*  
  
Sansa and Lady Alys were having one of those conversations she hated, where each sentence meant ten different things, and was offered seemingly offhand, with their attention completely focused on their sewing, while actually offering layers of import in each statement.  Sansa was stitching up the dress she would wear at the wedding in two days, accounting for growth in the bust, but never needing to add height to her frustration, and politically trying to offer guidance about the proper way to run Winterfell.  
  
A few days before, Sansa had corralled her into a final fitting, that has necessitated the final changes.  
  
Upon her first donning the gown, Sansa had stood back, and smiled in appreciation.  
  
"You look beautiful."  
  
"Oh, I think not."  
  
Sansa had raised an eyebrow, then insisted, "You are beautiful. You have grown up into quite a lovely woman."  
  
"I thought I was Arya Horseface?"  
  
"Perhaps you were an odd looking child, or perhaps we were just being foolish, cruel children. It matters little. You look lovely now."  
  
She had shrugged.  
  
"Everyone will be watching you the night of the wedding. Almost as much as they will be watching the new Queen. You must dance with an assortment of the men present. But give the first dance to Smalljon. Don't dance with any person more than twice, and if you do dance with someone twice, you must give Smalljon a second dance as well."    
  
Smalljon was traveling with the Umbers from Last Hearth and would remain after they departed.  She would have to deal with that now.  She remembered the Manderly girl's advice that she get to know him. She wasn't sure how much two dances would assist with that effort, but she'd try. Reluctantly, but she'd try.  
  
Having immobilized her in an incomplete dress, Sansa continued to dispense unrequested guidance.   
  
"Your position will change once the Queen is here, but not in ways I think you will dislike. You'll no longer be the King's main surrogate. You will have fewer family obligations, but will operate more for yourself. It will be the time to address you betrothal. Be it to Smalljon, or someone else."  
  
Sandra's incessant advice was annoying. If only Sansa were not more often right than wrong about how court functioned and the rivers of power within it.   
  
Sansa had continued: how to establish a place with the Queen and her ladies, how to properly court a man without being overly familiar, how to navigate the shifting power structures the presence of those from the Karhold would bring.  Most advice not even about the upcoming wedding, but advice for later, after Sansa and Rickon left.  
  
It seemed like that could wait until Rickon was older, but no one had asked her.   
  
"You must try to be a bit quieter. The Queen will need to have a stronger presence than you. She will need to establish her own court. She likely won't take well to an alternative, run by the King's sister."  
  
"Fine, I'll be quiet after the wedding if you agree to be loud."  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"There's no court at Moat Cailin, and less politics. You need to speak up more. What is there to hurt?"  
  
Sansa seemed so passive these days.   
  
She even missed the sister who would tattle on her failures to Mother or Septa Mordane. Not that either was alive for Sansa to imperiously explain her faults to these days.  
  
Sansa acquiesced, but it felt perfunctory. She would have to have words with Rickon before they left.  
  
Which brought her to now, sewing with Sansa and Lady Alys. She too was trying to look focus on sewing: to mend Jon's shirt, which Sansa had thrust at her moments before Robb's betrothed's arrival, with the instruction to do her best, or at least make it look like she was stitching.  
  
"While I have take the bulk of the day-to-day responsibilities, Arya has always done her duty to the family and kingdom, assisting with Winterfell. Of course, Lady Alys, Arya will remain here at Winterfell and will be happy to assist you in any way you need. She's always been a good resource for me. Especially with regards to the ledger."  
  
Lady Alys tipped her gaze in her direction. "Is that so, Lady Arya? How wonderful. It will good to have a native of Winterfell to assist as I become accustomed to my new home."  
  
"Of course. We shall be sisters. One must look after family."  
  
*

As she navigated the packed Great Hall, she couldn’t help but smile at the scene before her. One representative from each house in residence had stood with the families before the weirwood as the King had taken the black and white sunburst cloak from Lady Alys’s shoulders and replaced it with the grey and white direwolf cloak she and Mother had begun sewing a lifetime ago.

 

She’d made Arya add a few stiches too, and had praised them a little more than they deserved, but it was what Mother would have wanted.

 

Now, the full complement of each House in residence celebrated the marriage and their new Queen packed into the Great Hall and spilling out into the yard around the bonfires set for the occasion. From her vantage point at the edge of the room as she made her circuit, the marriage feast had come together perfectly. The meal had been well received and wine and mead continued to flow.  Just enough music played for dancing, but it did not overwhelm the happy conversations pulsing through the room. The King and Queen looked appropriately taken with each other at the High Table, and Arya was on the dance floor, as she had requested. It was Arya’s second dance with Smalljon. He loomed over Arya’s petite form – there was a reason the Umber’s sigil was a giant – but his large hands seemed to take care to handle her with the appropriate delicacy.

 

Bran had made friends with the children of one of the crannogmen visiting from the Neck, and seemed to be engaged in animated conversations, a wide smile only partially the result of the ready wine. Meanwhile, Rickon, having dispensed with the five dances she demanded of him, was seated next to Jon and the fellow men of the Night’s Watch.

 

It almost felt right. If she closed her eyes, she could nearly pretend it was King Robert and Queen Cersei, when the voices spoke of the King and Queen. She could imagine Mother was obscured by the bodies on the dance floor, Father had just vacated his seat at the High Table, and Uncle Benjen was one of the men beneath a black cloak beside Rickon.

 

Two nights prior, they had all gathered together in the King’s solar: the King in his usual place; Jon beside him; Arya on the floor, despite her words of chastisement; Bran in his chair; and Rickon in her lap, fighting sleep. They traded tales from their years apart, stories untouched by those missing, death, the Lannisters or the Others. It felt like before.

 

King Robb had smiled wide, bumping his shoulders against Jon in teasing amusement over the story Jon related of a mix up involving the winch elevator that had led to the trash from atop the Wall to be strewn atop Castle Black. The King seemed relaxed, eager to have his brother beside him – a brother for whom he was not responsible. Jon seemed quietly pleased. She’d wrinkled her nose at the mess those junior Watchmen had made, while Arya and Bran lapped up the tales of a distant place they associated with adventure. Rickon drooled on her a little, asleep on her shoulder.

 

But the couple kissing were not the King and Queen she once foolishly dreamed of meeting. His hair was red, and the Queen’s too dark. The voices all around her bore the Northern accent, no Crownlands', Stormlands', or Westerlands' lilts.

 

A one table to her left she heard a voice drunkly declare, “See, that’s the right kind of Lady of Winterfell! And Queen! A good Northerner!”

 

It looked to be one of Lord Bolton’s bannermen. She watched Lord Bolton lift his glass at the statement.

 

The man continued, “And the reception is much better than the visit a year ago. Good thing we have a proper woman in charge now, and not the whore from before.”

 

She heard Lord Bolton agree.

 

Try as she might, as tight as she closed her eyes, it was now, not before.

 

It was time to leave Winterfell.


	14. Sansa, Arya, Sansa

Samwell Tarley, call me Sam, was delightful. She hasn't been sure what to think, when Jon had told her one of his brothers from the Night's Watch would be accompanying them south. She'd been expecting someone like Jon and Uncle Benjen, or perhaps, Ranger Qhorin, who had spoken with the Lords of the North about the threat above the Wall: A warrior of few words, steady and unyielding like the Wall.

 

Instead, he was rotund, verbose, and blushed whenever she addressed him, even now, days into their journey.

 

Jon had spoken highly of him, claiming he was brave, honorable, and astoundingly intelligent, if not the best swordsman, before their party departed Winterfell, bound for Moat Cailin, Greywater Watch, and Oldtown

 

Thankfully, they hadn't had to put his martial skills to test, though she did wonder how a son of House Tarly, one of the most prominent in the Reach, made it to adulthood without much skill with a sword, let alone came to join the Night's Watch. She didn't ask him, nor did she broach any of the questions that had bubbled up once she identified the origin of his name. She did not enquire what he thought of his family’s new liege lord, how the brisk late autumn days compared to the Reach, whether he had visited Highgarden in his youth. She barely even thought on these topics.

 

He continued to speak, riding in front of her.

 

"And you see, Prince Rickon, that is why many of the trees here have quite different leaves than those in other parts of Westeros, though certain species are found below the Neck, particularly in the lower altitude areas of the Vale."

 

Rickon nodded, amiably, much happier to take his lessons while astride his horse, than locked into a room with the Maester. At the start of their journey she'd relayed Jon's compliment, and asked if he might tutor Rickon. He’d gone beet red, and agreed.

 

“Now, my turn for a story.” Rickon demanded of Sam. Rickon had developed a hero-worship of Jon during the wedding. Sam was seem as an excellent source of the stories, and had cagily developed a barter process that had Rickon attending to his lessons better than with Maester Luwin.

 

“Jon told me that when he was with the group meeting with the King Beyond the Wall, he…”

 

Lord Reed, with whom she’d been discussing the politics of the crannogmen fell silent to listen to Sam’s tale. He was an odd man, prone to quiet and peculiar looks directed toward the man of the Night’s Watch that seemed a tad excessive for the unthreatening man. But, Father had always spoken of him in the most favorable terms. They rode, listening to the tales of Mance Rayder, Lord Commander Mormont, and, based on Rickon’s questions, the crowd favorite of Jon Snow, making peace even with the Lord of Bones.

 

Lord Reed interrupted. “We will break here for the night.”

 

Later, seated beside Sam in front of the fire, Rickon tucked into the tent in an exhausted sleep, she asked what Sam’s tale of diplomatic success glossed over.

 

“The Others and the dead. What are they really like?”

 

He responded with a drawn out, “Well…”

 

“Please.” She gave him a steady look.

 

“They’re terrifying. Like nightmares. The dead are bodies without that which makes us human. Just bone and frozen flesh.   And the Others, the ones that seem to raise and control the armies of the dead, well, so few things hurt them: only fire, Valyrin steel, and dragonglass. Its easy to fail, and fall. Each who does, just brings them a new recruit.”

 

She shuddered at his descriptions.

 

“But,” he continued, “already the North and the free folk have already reached an agreement. They’re really not bad, the free folk. Not much for book learning, but kind, smart.” He looked bashful for a moment. “I almost couldn’t believe it when King Robb agreed to admit them. From the stories I heard as a child, I suspected it would be a non-starter. But it makes sense, why build the army the North will have to fight? So, perhaps, with men like Jon, and your brother, the King, and the Lord Commander, perhaps we can succeed.”

 

*

 

They approached Moat Cailin from the north. From the distance, the towers looked simultaneously old, crumbling, and empty – an abandoned ruin to the busy, breathing entity of Winterfell – but also imposing and ominous. The air had the touch of the cold damp that had seemed to emanate from the Neck, and there was a grey mist that made the sky seem heavy and close.

 

It had none of the warm strength Winterfell seemed to offer.

 

Now that she was here, it didn’t seem like the new opportunity she desperately wanted it to be, but exile. A fleeting thought crossed her mind: I'm just lucky no one becomes a Silent Sister in the North.

 

Ser Piet Long, the castellan with whom she had corresponded, met them along the road and was narrating their approach.

 

“It has been a long time since this area of the North had been heavily populated, but with the King’s forces had at Moat Cailin for several years, we have making great progress rebuilding both Moat Cailin and the surrounding community.”

 

As they drew near, she could see where the new stone joined with the old, like healed scars, and the beginnings of the keep: a bright, newly completed timber Great Hall at its center.

 

*

She was bored. There was less to do now that the Queen was here. For all the time she was expected to be with the Queen and her ladies, receiving visitors, or tending to the keep, or even sewing, she just had fewer responsibilities now.

 

She missed Sansa and Rickon. Rickon was always looking for someone to gambol about the Wolfswood, and Sansa always had a task for her to do, or lessons to “share,” or just a desire to sit together, quietly. Not to mention she used to spending time schooling some of the fools in the yard about proper decorum, and terms of address. Within the bounds of appropriately respectable sparring, of course. But they were down at Moat Cailin.

 

She was a little jealous. She would have much preferred to go with them than remain at court. There would be adventure there, and space. Moat Cailin might have to defend attackers from the south. It was certainly more interesting than sitting here, in court, talking.

 

She hadn't even bothered asked to travel with them. She knew she was needed at Winterfell to ensure the new Queen didn't make a mess of it. If she'd asked, Sansa would have simply sat her down for a lecture. And, she understood, family, duty and honor and all that, but it left her feeling restless most days.

 

She and Nymeria stalked down to the Great Hall looking for something to do – looking to move. It was raining down pellets of ice, covering the yard in a slippery sheet, or she would have taken Needle out for practice with Dacey or run through the woods. But, winter is coming.

 

Robb was busy. That was the problem with being King, always something needing your attention. The movement of the wildlings down to Gift appeared to necessitate never ending raven. No need to bother checking with him.

 

Bran was in the library with the Reeds. She'd rather not. Something about Jojen was unnerving. He reminded her of hiking through the Neck, and how the trees had felt like they were watching her.

 

Smalljon was seated at one of the long tables, beside the fire, with a book open before him.

 

"Good afternoon," she greeted.

 

He looked up to her. She liked being taller than him, for once.

 

"Princess Arya, hello." He stood to acknowledge her, and following a quick nod, she slid into the bench opposite his.

 

"Tell me about Last Hearth."  


*

 

She led him to her room. There were few buildings and little privacy to be had a Moat Cailin: just the towers, barracks, barns, and the Great Hall and the few anterooms. The latter had been converted to serve as bedchambers for herself and Rickon.

 

She not address him, until they were behind the closed door. She was livid. His mouth was set in a defiant line, but he refused meet her eyes.

 

"Rickon, look at me. Now. What compelled you to get into a fight? We have been here two days. What possible dispute could you have developed in such a short time?”

 

“Arya said,” he stated, then snapped his mouth shut.

 

“Arya said what?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Why did you fight, with boy two years your senior nonetheless.”

 

He pursed his lips, as if to hold back any desire to speak.

 

“Arya is not necessarily a good example about when one should fight. On some occasions she has failed to think the consequences. Now what did she say and why did you decide to punch that boy – almost a man – and allow Shaggy to terrify him?”

 

He stood in silence, engaged in a staring contest as a result of her earlier order. After nearly ten minutes, she gave in on uncovering the motive, and switched to the more important issue.

 

“Do you understand what I’m angry at your actions?”

 

More silence.

 

“Rickon, you will be the lord here. When lord, you with be responsible for making important decisions for people’s lives. You will mete out justice. You will have to take men’s lives. A lord, a prince, or king who operates based on the whims of their temper is a poor ruler. He is not respected. He is cruel and arbitrary. You will not be such a man.”

 

Rickon continued his staring contest.

 

“Perhaps you believe your actions warranted. As you refuse to explain the cause of the insult, I shall be forced to treat them as if they were not. You clearly are not old enough and responsible enough to police your own time and behavior. “

 

Rickon scowled at this claim.

 

“You will rise every morning with the carpenters and stonemasons and work them until the second hour after the mid-day meal. At which point, you will meet with the Maester and master of arms for lessons. You shall only have free time to explore twice a week, and must be accompanied by myself. This shall continue until I deem your behavior suitably corrected. Do you understand?”

 

“Yes, Sansa.”

 

“Good.”


	15. Sansa

Rickon ran ahead, Shaggy dogging his heels.

 

"They hatched!" He shouted back to Sansa and Maester Roan, recently arrived from Oldtown. The young Maester had been joining them on those days Rickon had free time, learning the land so different from the Vale of his youth. She enjoyed the visits to the wood. It was a nice respite from the work to be done.

 

"Don't touch the babies," the Maester advised as they walked to meet Rickon. They had been visiting the nest during Rickon's guided explorations, approaching on those days when the guarding hawk - smart and sharp - was absent.

 

She looked down upon the little birds. The pair was ugly and weak. They hardly resembled the powerful creatures they would grow into.

 

The Maester made a noise of discontent. She directed an enquiring gaze in his direction.

 

"They hatched some time ago. But the shells should have been removed by their mother. This species always keeps a clean nest. She must not have returned yet."

 

Rickon looked stricken. "Will they survive without their mother?"

 

"Perhaps - if she returns soon."

 

The bird on the left made a pitiful tweet.

 

"Could they be raised through hand feeding?" She asked.

 

"I don't see why not. Do you fancy hunting hawks Princess?"

 

"Better not to let them perish."

 

She plucked the nest from the branch at her collarbone. She held it gingerly, fearful to jostle the hatchlings to death.

 

"I shall name them Florian and Jonquil."

 

*

 

The evenings were her least favorite part of the day. They gathered in the newly constructed Great Hall to conserve the candles before making for the barrack and the solars-cum-bedchambers. Rickon took to it, spending his evenings with the men and being treated as one.

 

It was all men. She laughed a little at what Septa Mordane would have thought, her alone with so many men, chaperoned only by Rickon, who cared not at all for conventions and courtesies. The Septa would have advised against conversation with the men – but she couldn’t really retire to sit alone in her room alone in the darkness every evening.

 

Besides, propriety seemed a looser concept at Moat Cailin.

 

“Ser Piet.” She greeted, setting down the new pants she was stitching to account for Rickon’s lengthening legs.

 

“Princess Sansa.” He joined her beside the fire. They watched Rickon engage in eager conversation across the room.

 

"That one has spirit," Ser Piet remarked.

 

"Aye."

 

"It's been good to have him here. He interjects some novelty in the day. The men appreciate that he works beside them. Not the best stonemason, I hear, but a more than passible carpenter."

 

"Stone is too slow," she responded. "I'm glad he is helping. It is good for him to build his keep. He'll have a lifelong desire to protect it."

 

"I'm sure if someone tried to attack today he'd man the ramparts with all his body and soul. He has an intensity, that one. It reminds me of your father."

 

"Oh?"

 

"I didn't know him well, but I fought beside him during the Greyjoy Rebellion. A great deal quieter than Prince Rickon, but a shared focus." He smiled at her.

 

"Lord Eddard was a quiet man, but do you know what you could usually get him to speak about?" He didn't even pause for her to answer. "His children. He would talk of his babes with hair like their mother and how much he loved them and longed to see them again."

 

"He is very missed."

 

"By all the North, but I'm sure by your family especially."

 

"And you, Ser Piet, do you have children?"

 

"Aye, two girls, Mira and Betha, after my late wife's mother. They are long married with babes of their own. You know, they say men want sons, but not me. I had no land to give them. They would have just lived with my brother as well, but my girls, I could build their dowries and marry them well. They seem happy."

 

"You must miss them."

 

"Deeply, but they don't need their father crowding their keep, at least not yet. I'd rather be here. Makes this old soldier feel like he's still fit for a battlefield."

 

She smiled at him. "I certainly feel safe with you here."

 

"Thank you Princess."

 

"Have you seen many battlefields then? Did you fight in the Rebellion with my father as well?"

 

"I did fight, but with the Riverlands’ forces. It seemed foolish to travel across contested land just to find the Northern armies."

 

She nodded in agreement.

 

"I'm afraid I didn't know Lord Eddard well. I was much more familiar with his father."

 

"You knew Lord Rickard?"

 

"I did. He's the reason I'm a knight."

 

“Praytell?”

 

“Early in King Aerys’ reign, shortly after your father was born, he was summoned South to bend the knee. He passed through our keep. I was just a boy of nine and the third son of a small house. He asked my father to bring me along to squire, and see the world a bit. It was in King’s Landing that I met Ser Renett, and officially became his squire, which would one day lead me to my own oils, and now, here we sit.”

 

“What was he like, Lord Rickard? Father rarely spoke of him.”

 

“Smart. But not just intelligent. Savvy.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“He looked at the world and recognized that it had changed but the actors had not. The North had stayed as distant from the dragons, the real dragons, not the metaphorical ones, as possible. But even after the dragons died out, the North remained a backwater. He thought the North needed to integrate into the Seven Kingdoms, or it would simply be leeched by the Southroners for time immemorial. They would take our taxes for their palaces. They would take our men for their wars. They would offer nothing in return. Even the barest of responsibilities of these Kings, the Wall protecting their Kingdom was left destitute. So Lord Rickard tried. He met with King Aerys, he fostered your Father, he made a betrothal with your Mother. He tried to make a place for the North.”

 

“And now we sit in an independent kingdom. It was for naught.” She thought about all the time and attention she had paid to the South in her youth. The fantasies she had spun for herself. Such time and effort wasted. Useless as she now sat in a room of soldiers and laborers awaiting winter, a true winter.

 

“Pardon, but I think that’s wrong. You don’t survive the winters in the North by taking rash action. You know that. I see you with the ledgers and planning our stores. You prepare, and prepare more, and hope supplies last till spring.

 

“But the North has rebelled, not once but twice in two generations. I think the North did so not because it was rash, but because it was reasonable, because we had been shown it to be the next sensible step. Lord Rickard tried. We were a quarter of a millennium under the Targaryen reign, and ignored for most of it. He attempted to make a relationship worth something to the North now that the threat of dragonfire was gone. And the Iron Throne showed again and again how little they cared for us. When a man tells you who he is, eventually you must believe his words.

 

“So no, I think his end was a tragedy, as was your Father’s. I don’t discount it. But I refuse to think men who tried to take the path of integration and peace acted for nothing. They, like Torren Stark, acted with a mind toward their people. They showed that integration was not a road traversable. They understood that the status quo was unacceptable, and by exploring the other options, they allowed us to make it here – free.”

 

They sat in silence, letting his words crash over them both like a wave.

 

Not for naught.

 

An argument in the far corner drew Ser Piet’s attention, and he took his leave. She stood, setting down her stitching, to walk through his words.

 

As she took a turn around the room, she heard Rickon ask one of the soldiers, voice high over the chatter, “What is the most disgusting thing you ever saw on the battlefield?”

 

She approached as the man responded, “Lord Bolton, after they killed Lady Catelyn, captured a Ironborn. He delivered the man’s hand to the King. But he didn’t just cut it off. First, while he questioned the man, he stripped it of its nails. Then, finger by finger, he removed the skin. Once it was gone to the knuckles, he sliced the palm off in one swift cut, stripping the hand clear. It was this red, pulsing thing. It dripped.”

 

“Rickon,” she interrupted, her voice carefully even and pleasant. “Its time for you to turn in.”

 

“But Sansa!”

 

“Its important you are awake during your lessons tomorrow, and I know the hour the carpenters rise. Bid goodnight and retire to your chambers.”

 

He complied, likely more tired than he would admit, even to himself.

 

She remained fixed in place, until Rickon was halfway across the Hall, before turning to face the soldier who had offered such a detailed description. She kept her voice modulated as it had been for Rickon.

 

“Do not tell the Prince such tales again.”

 

The man scowled at her censure. “He asked.”

 

“He is just a boy. You are a man. You should exercise judgment.”

 

“It’s the way the world is. He’ll need to know, especially here.”

 

“I am positive the world force him to learn these truths before long, but let’s not invite them in before they are warranted. He is already, painfully aware of the death that accompanies war. He does not need to join that with the images of the battlefield yet.”

 

He straightened, pulling himself up to his full height, but Rickon was not the only person to have grown taller on the journey to Moat Cailin. A slight straightening of her own posture allowed her to continue to stare into his eyes. “Tell me, what is the most disgusting thing you ever saw on the battlefield, Princess?”

 

She looked back, confirming that Rickon had obeyed, before she turned to the man and said, “My father – your liege lord’s head, severed from his body, mounted on a spike, rotting, and partially consumed by birds.

 

“Do not tell the Prince such tales again.”

 

*

It was nearing dusk. She wandered through Moat Cailin, looking to find Rickon. She had started with Maester Roan, who instead of a little brother, had offered her two letters: one from Bran, updating her on the comings and goings at Winterfell, and one from the King.

 

Queen Alys was with child. This was good. She was happy.

 

It would be important for the strength of the King’s rule, especially in light of the continuing discontent with regards to the wildlings and threat of war, if the Stark King had an heir of his own soon. It would be better for Bran and Rickon if the King and Queen birthed a boy. For now, if anything happened to his Grace, Bran would be next in line. Bran would be a good King, but many of the North would see only his infirmity, and agitate for Rickon take his brother’s place. Rickon would hate being King. He could barely tolerate being a Prince. But the North would not see it this way. Rickon would support Bran’s claim, she knew this in her bones, but such a situation couldn’t help but strain their relationship. A new heir would allow Bran and Rickon to just be the boys they were, and to have something closer to the childhood they deserved.

 

King Robb would have a babe.

 

Robb would be a father.

 

She’d always assumed she would be the first of her siblings to have a child. Then she had desperately prayed not to be pregnant. Not to have Joffrey’s child. Now, she wondered off-hand if it would have been so bad. The babe wouldn’t have been his, not really, he would have never laid eyes or hands upon the child.   The child she had feared would have been her’s to love and care for, her’s alone.

 

It would have been horrible for the child, she knew how they had treated Jon, even her own words adding to the hurt at times, and how they sometimes treated her. She couldn’t imagine some combination thereof heaped upon an innocent babe. But it would have been nice to have the babe. She thought of a child to hold, to teach, to put down to sleep every night and send off with lullabies. She dreamed of another person to cut the overwhelming loneliness that still felt was suffocating her some days.

 

She’d always known she would have children as part of her duty, but she had wanted them as well. It wasn’t a thing she feared, but rather anticipated.

 

That wouldn’t happen now.

 

She’d raise Rickon to be a man. He was well on his way.

 

She’s likely help with his children, or Arya’s, or his Grace’s. Going wherever she was needed.

 

Eventually she’d become like Old Nan – Old Sansa – a figure of pleasant regard for generations of Starks.

 

That wouldn’t be too terrible, right?

 

She found Rickon practicing sparing with the soldiers, and beamed at him taking on the tasks he knew were his responsibilities without being asked. The men offered her polite greetings after they dismissed Rickon.

 

“Fine work.” She ruffled his hair, earning a scowl. “You looked good out there.”

 

“Don’t tell, but its more fun to practice here.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“At Winterfell Arya was always better than me.”

 

She laughed at his words. “She’d be proud of you. Will come with me to feed Florian and Jonquil?”

 

He agreed, somehow still filled with boundless energy.

 

As they walked, she shared the King’s other news. Rickon didn’t need to know about Queen Alys just yet.

 

“His Grace writes that there was a battle North of the Wall. The Lord Commander perished. Jon has been elected the new Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

 

“Really, wow. That’s great. He’ll be good at it.” She was glad he focused on Jon’s recognition, and not the threat facing the North.

 

“I agree. Its quite an honor. I know Jon will do his best to protect us. I believe there may be some unnerving news in the months to come. I can’t promise much, but I want you to know, I will do everything I can to keep you safe.”


	16. Arya, Sansa

"Smalljon. Follow me." She marched away, into the Godswood, where they wouldn't be heard or observed, in direct contravention of the many instructions Sansa had given her moons ago.

 

He followed, asking questions she ignored the whole way. Once they stood before the weirwood, she spun to face him, and spoke.

 

"Our potential betrothal has been much discussed, as I'm sure you know. Now Robb is discussing sending men to Dragonstone, to treat with the Targaryan woman there, and acquire dragonglass. Before they go, he wants our betrothal set."

 

He had explained it was a way to strengthen the North by countering the opposition to reestablishing contact and terms with the Targaryans, but all she cared about was that it would mean she couldn't be married South. She’d soon run away to become a wildling than go south again.

 

"I am aware," Smalljon said, this giant staring down at her. "And Princess Arya, it would be an honor..."

 

"No, stop. No more talking. I need you to hear me out. I'm bad at being a Lady or a Princess. I hate court life, the polite conversations, the battles with words, the subterfuge, to the sewing, dresses, and dancing. I did it. Did it because it was my duty and for my family.

 

"But it's like being a mummer. Playing an act. All this pretend makes me feel like I'm really no one. That I have to hide who I am to such an extent that there’s nothing there. I can't promise to do that the rest of my life. I won't let the 'a Princess' overtake Arya."

 

"Arya..."

 

"No, listen. I actually like you. I didn't really expect to. But you're strong and straightforward and kind. But if what you want is a Princess, I won’t be that."

 

She realized she was panting, like she'd been running, though the walk had been relatively short.

 

"But what I think I can be is your wife. I could be a good wife. I can be your friend, I think we're already there. I can raise children with you. We've done pretty well drilling the local boys in the yard. I know how to run a keep and am very good with the figures and ledger. Last Hearth is near the wildling settlements. I want to help with them, they sound interesting and I'm not afraid. I'd like to meet the spearwives. I can help protect Last Hearth from threats."

 

He was staring at her, a little dumbstruck from her flood of words. She pressed on.

 

"When Robb asks me, I will say yes. I think we could be a good match. If a good wife is enough for you, then I hope you consent as well. But, I won't change. I walked from King’s Landing to Winterfell, mere years won’t cause me to alter my mind. I won't become a perfect Princess or Lady if I become Arya Stark Umber. I will just be me.”

 

*

 

Ser Piet’s second in command, Osric Bowyer, found her as she broke her fast, asking if she had need or desire to visit the inn and tavern closest to Moat Cailin. The weather was unseasonably warm, and he intended to ride to visit with the traders present.

 

He was a quiet man, a fitting second to his loquacious commander. She used the silence on the journey to ruminate over her to approach the issue of the proprietors. Of all the local community, they should have been the most welcoming of the increased presence in the area. Yet as she had made her visits, the innkeeper and his wife had remained aloof and cold. The tavern was an important meeting place for the local community. She worried their reception would spread to the surrounding villagers. Hence this trip: her third attempt to develop a cordial relationship.

 

But it wasn’t her third visit to the tavern.

 

She seated herself along one of the benches. Bowyer visited with the men and their wares outside. She waited, as Rosee the tavern keeper saw to the dwindling crowd. The room was almost deserted. Northerners knew, with winter coming, that days such as today could not be squandered inside.

 

“Rosee, will you join me?” she asked the woman, once her work looked able to pause. Rosee sat across from her. She gestured that the woman should pour herself a drink.

 

“You know, I had visited your tavern before Rickon and I moved to Moat Cailin. Once, as girl, traveling with my Father and King Robert headed South, and then again on my return to Winterfell. It was a welcome respite on both journeys.”

 

“Thank you Princess.”

 

“Its nice to be here now. Nice to sit with you.” She bent in conspiratorially. “I’m a bit outnumbered at Moat Cailin.”

 

Now that the threat of war from the South and the expected first strike against the very keep they were rebuilding, was dissipating, more and more of the men at Moat Cailin were calling their families South, to settle in and around the keep. This was much to the pleasure of the soldiers who had done double duty as cooks or washermen. She enjoyed meeting their wives, daughters, and sisters, watching them become members of the community. But Moat Cailin was very much a keep staffed by second and third sons, mostly unmarried, and would likely remain so for years.

 

Rosee did not meet this statement with the expected smile, but her face grew troubled.

 

She continued, “As Moat Cailin grows, there will be an increased need for a tavern and inn. You and your family will surely benefit.” It had been in her family for generations. Years of holding the crossroads would finally pay off for the children running about outside.

 

Rosee looked about the room, eyes passing over the drunk in corner, before fixing her with a wide-eyed stare and frown.

 

“Forgive my boldness, but tell me Princess, do you feel safe at Moat Cailin?”

 

“Of course. It has repelled attack for thousands of years, and is in better shape than it has been in centuries. Despite today’s weather, winter is surely coming. No sane person would attack the North now.”

 

“No,” Rosee replied, stretching the word out. “Do you feel safe, inside Moat Cailin?”

 

She froze.

 

“There are many guards there,” she said carefully. But, she knew that often, it was the guards you have to fear. “And I have a knife. I know how to use it.” Arya had seen to that.

 

She stared at Rosee, “So, yes. I do. Why do you ask?”

 

Rosee looked like she would rather flee, but instead, she took a large sip from her tankard, and then laid her hands flat on the table.

 

“Living among so many men – they might act as they ought not.”

 

Why would she be asking this? Surely Rosee knew she couldn’t lose her maidenhead again, there was no way a tavern owner would not be aware of such salacious gossip. Propriety and courtly rules might not be in high supply at Moat Cailin, but her reputation was certainly already beyond any damage from such procedural irregularities. But Rosee wasn’t looking at her. Instead, the tavernwoman stared at her own hands, fingertips gripping at the table plank.

 

“Did something happen?” she asked.

 

Rosee didn’t answer for a moment, instead meeting her eyes with a searching look.

 

“One of the soldiers who held the Moat before the King rode North, he treated my sister ill.”

 

“I’m sorry. Did he – take from her? Against her will?”

 

“He was handsome and higher born: a Lord’s bastard with coin to spend. She was happy to lie with him. But, he also had a knife. And he thought to use it.”

 

She shuddered and thought of soldiers with knives. With swords and the line of fire they impart.

 

“That’s terrible.” She reached out her hand to grasp Rosee’s. “Did he – is she…?”

 

“Didn’t kill her. But she don’t talk now. She’s in the kitchen. She can’t stand to be out where the men are.”

 

She closed her eyes a moment, familiar with that feeling. She remembered walking through the Red Keep, flinching at every heavy footfall or white cloak.

 

“Might I speak with her – to her? Just for a moment.”

 

Rosee looked hesitant, but then stood and stepped away from the bench.

 

“What is your sister’s name?”

 

“Erla.”

 

Rosee escorted her to the kitchens where Erla, some ten years her sister’s junior, stood stirring the pot. She startled at their entrance.

 

“Erla, hello. My name is Princess Sansa.” She was greeted with an abortive curtsey. She continued. It felt odd to carry the whole of a conversation herself. Treat it like a letter, she thought.

 

“Your sister told me a little of what you experienced. I’m so sorry. I know how terrifying that must have been. How frightening it remains.” Erla was looking down, curling her shoulders in on herself.

 

“Its not your fault. Not that you think it is, but if you did, its not.”

 

Her words only seemed to upset the woman more. That wasn’t her purpose

 

“I know what its like. What it feels like when a man treats you poorly. I was betrothed. He was cruel. He liked to hurt me.”

 

She sucked in a breath and continued. “You are not alone. The man’s actions aren’t your fault. It will get better for you, I hope. It has, for me.”

 

From within the tavern’s dining area, Bowyer called out after her. Erla startled. It seemed unkind to continue.

 

“I will speak with the Master of Arms at Moat Cailin. I just wanted you to know.”

 

She smiled, nodded, and then retreated from the kitchen, Rosee on her heels.

 

Once, in the dining room, Bowyer looked relieved to see her.

 

Rosee began, “Princess…”

 

She interrupted, quietly asking, “The Lord, what was his name. The father?”

 

“Lord Bolton. It was his bastard.”

 

“Thank you. It was good to speak with you today. I hope, I hope it helped a little.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Princess, are you ready?” Bowyer asked her. She provided her assent and they moved to the waiting horses outside.

 

They exchanged brief pleasantries, before Bowyer settled into his quiet ride. The pleasant weather turned on them during their time at the tavern. The skies opened, sending down a cold rain, worse than the fat snowflakes that would have greeted them if the weather had been just a touch colder.

 

I can't believe a Northman would do such a thing, floated through her head. But almost as soon as it crossed her mind, she gave a derisive harrumph.

 

That was a childish thought. She knew better.

 

Of course a Northman could do such a thing.

 

Were they that different from the men of King's Landing?  The men rioting and looming tall above, pushing her to the ground, dress torn and soiled.

 

Men who could say such foul things to her, even within Winterfell's walls.

 

Surely, one Northman, among the innumerable many who thought a woman already fallen, could then do such a thing.

 

She gripped the reins, her shoulders high, everything tight.

 

It was so wrong. Erla was too afraid to venture into her own dining room. He took her words from her.

 

She was clearly still so scared. The men at Moat Cailin weren’t a sign of comfort for Erla. They were a constant threat.

 

Like white cloaks around every corner.

 

She shook with rage at the man who thought he could cause such pain.

 

He took comfort, she thought, from the type of men who spoke so boldly and cruelly.

 

From men who said it was her fault.

 

As if she’s wanted him.

 

As if she’s desired for him to have her held down. To follow through on the threats he’d made.

 

The rain beat at her face, the cold water mixing with hot, salty tears.

 

It wasn’t her fault.

 

She hadn’t asked for him to have men beat her. She’d said no when he’d burst into her room.

 

Repeated it as litany – no, no, no, no, no, no – until the words lost all meaning and were just sounds.

 

She’d just wanted to be rescued. Wanted to feel safe. Wanted to go home.

 

They arrived back at Moat Cailin. She was breathing hard, though the ride had not been challenging. She quickly thanked Bowyer, and retreated to her rooms to change from her sodden clothes, worried that if she opened her mouth too long she might scream.

 

She wondered, as her heel strikes felt like drum beats, if they could see her anger emanating from her.

 

Once dry and warm, she felt more in control. She brushed out her now damp hair before the fire. She felt less like flying apart at the seams, and more just a deep sense that this was wrong. Everything was wrong.

 

Her head ached.

 

She refused to bind it up, to amplify the tightness across her forehead. She left it all down.

 

She walked swiftly to dinner, the red lengths bouncing after like a banner.


	17. Sansa

The white hot of her rage has cooled, but it is somehow worse now. Before, she was singular in her anger, fueled by its power against those who would hurt her, hurt others. She instructed Ser Piet in clipped tones that it has his responsibility to ensure that the soldiers at Moat Cailin did not harm relations with small folk. That they did not harm the small folk. That if it were to occur, the men would be sent to Winterfell for justice, with her recommendation that they take the black. Meanwhile, the several men who failed to complete their work with appropriate care over the past fortnight had faced her unusually harsh words.

 

But, she couldn't fuel that fire without thoughts on its cause. She perseverated on what brought her here. And ensuing focus made her question.

 

Why did Robb leave her at King's Landing? Why was she not worth rescue? Father fought a war to rescue his sister, not gain a crown.

 

But did he? He only rode out for Aunt Lyanna after they captured King's Landing - once the Targaryans were defeated. Did he not know where to look, or were there simply more important tasks at hand? And he was even less successful than Robb in saving his sister.

 

And he had betrothed her to Joffrey.

 

But she had wanted it. Perhaps it was her own childish desires that brought her here. That had killed father.

 

That was certainly what the North seemed to think. That her experiences, as soiled as they left her, only manifested a deeper inborn defect just waiting to be made visible.

 

But they were wrong!

 

She was of the North. The Kingsguard hadn't been able to beat that out of her. Each time she had to disavow her houses, it only had her feel them more strongly.

 

They had left her there, and she had done what she had to survive.

 

They were wrong.

 

Perhaps she had made the right choice, a betrothal to tie the North with King's Landing, which, if made to a King less mad, would have saved many lives. Perhaps his Grace had been right as well. His choices made a Kingdom and freed their people. Once she returned, he had needed to distance himself from her before his bannermen realized that he was just as Southron as she. She had helped – had seen even more clearly the threat she could be to his reign. Maybe their choices were right and she was just the cost of an independent North.

 

Those who spoke ill – who gave sound to her deepest fears – she tried to reject them. She knew that hadn't willingly been Joffrey's. She was her mother's daughter, but was she not also a daughter of Winterfell? She had returned to her home and prepared it for winter. She was building Moat Cailin to protect the North from invasion. She was raising Rickon to be a proper Northern Lord and Prince.

 

She wanted to shout that this wasn't the life she was supposed to have. That she still had worth. Had honor. That the defects they saw so clearly were in part of their own making - their decisions born out on her skin.

 

Some days she wanted to scream this at the tops of her lungs. To make them understand!

 

But, the irony of the great “they” is they never truly listen. They are never around to face a righteous rage. Rather, it was just Moat Cailin and its people, who were not the problem. Yes, it would never be what she wanted, if she spoke true to herself. She never wanted adventure, to create a life at the edge, to organize soldiers instead of household staff. She missed libraries, conversation, and the community she hadn't truly felt since Jeyne disappeared.

 

But she loved Moat Cailin too. Loved it for what it gave Rickon. He had thrived here. Given a place alongside the men building his keep he had settled. Maester Luwin would shocked at the attention with which he took his lessons. The childish anger and fear had grown into a secure contentment.

 

And with only a few examples, stark by their infrequency, she had been treated well since her arrival. Any push back had primarily been due to the fact that she was a woman in the place of men, not that she was, in particular, a fallen one.

 

If only she wanted to be here. If only she didn't see and know her future going forward so clearly and ache at how it diverged from what she had always expected and desired. Not the childish dream of being queen, but the path and duty to have a marriage, children, and keep of her own, replaced by a journey from Rickon's regent, to his companion, to the woman he and wife would rely on to help with his heirs.

 

When she thought about that, thought about men like Joffrey, men like Bolton's bastard, men like those who decreed her so ruined that her mere presence was offensive, men who made her feel ashamed not for her actions, but her endurance, she raged.

 

She tried to feed it into preparing for winter and into building Moat Cailin, like planting bulbs before frost to flower in the spring.

 

When her anger had cooled sufficiently, she wrote to the King. She noted that while earlier plans had discussed rotating soldiers from keeps throughout the North to replace those that had done their duty and didn't want to make a life here was the wrong approach. That the local communities needed to feel Moat Cailin was theirs. Moreover, Moat Cailin was well situated and the threat from the South had decreased. Perhaps, she suggested, the plan, which dated to before the threat of the Others, should be altered. Bannermen, such as those from the Dreadfort so known for their ferocity, should be deployed North against the greater menace.

 

There was little more she could think to do. She couldn’t make Joffrey pay for his violence against her. She couldn’t set the many who thought ill of her right. She couldn’t give Erla the justice she deserved. Ser Piet had not arrived at Moat Cailin until after the peace - and the act. Erla would not speak of it and her sister's words were about an event she hadn't witnessed, against a man absent, who was also his father and Lord's only living child. In the making the accusation, they might draw further harm. Upon her return to the tavern, Erla had shaken her head violently against the suggestion she write the King. So, she simply did the best she could, though it felt too small.

 

But, when her efforts were not enough to sate her anger and she longed to scream, run, and act entirely unladylike she retreated to the woods. She hid there, refusing to let them see the base action that heretofore those at Moat Cailin hadn't attributed to her. She would pray before the weirwood tree, asking the old gods and the new for peace – for herself and the realm. When that did not calm her, she would set Florian and Jonquil free, and watch the birds make lazy circles and dive forward with purpose for the kill.

 

On the worst days, as she forced her breaths to exhale in time with the flaps of their wings or the turn of their glide, when the need to be proper warred with the tumult of anger and questions in her head, she wondered if it wasn't better to have remained numb and sad.

 

*

 

Bran's customary update on Winterfell arrived on a perfunctory day as she went about her daily routine. It said much on their home, which had accommodated to Queen Alys' administration, and told her little about himself. Tacked to the end was a short note from Arya, whose approach toward correspondence left something to be desired. But when she saw the words, she hardly cared.

 

_Sansa,_

_You may have been right. I refuse to declare it totally, lest you take it as an invitation for more advice, and there still remains a lifetime's worth to test your theories, but if it continues as it has begun, you may have been onto something._

_Smalljon and I are betrothed. I told him I wouldn't live out life just Princess-ing, and that I intended to wear breeches everyday we didn't have visitors at Last Hearth, but he still agreed. We shan't marry until later. I don't want a babe yet, and Maester Luwin concurred. Plus, it would take for you and Rickon to arrive, and Robb has sent some of those who would need to come to the wedding out traveling, but the betrothal has been signed and agreed to by Robb and Greatjon._

_Your instructions might not have been all bad, though I mostly honored them in the breech._

_How are the hawks? Have you taken them hunting yet? Tell Rickon hello, and not to do anything I wouldn't._

_Love,_

_Arya_

_P.S. I know you’ll make me wear a dress for the wedding. Would you sew it? Yours are always the best._

 

If, at any point between Arya's birth and yesterday, she had truthfully considered what her dominant emotions would be, were Arya betrothed when she remained unmatched, she would have had to confess to herself a host of cruel feelings: jealousy, anger, sadness, and shame.

 

And they were there, but as bit players to her happiness, bone deep relief, and pride.

 

She made this happen. To be sure, Arya and Smalljon were the central figures. But, she had identified right future Lord, of appropriate station, whom Arya might agree to consider and not flee. Whom Arya could be herself with, while still being a Princess and a Lady. She had coached Arya on how to act, and her sister had listened, enough. And she had convinced the King that the Umbers were the right bannermen to consider elevating with this marriage. That the Greatjon's support, and position at the far flung corner of the kingdom, made this a far better match to extend the Stark's power, than with the proper and courteous Cley Cerwyn - whose personality and keep would ensure Arya was forever at court.

 

And she didn't come out and say it, but in her letter Arya seemed happy. She was happy and settled and safe.

 

And she had help make that happen.

 

"You seem in a bright mood, Princess," Ser Piet greeted her as she seated herself for supper.

 

"It was a beautiful day," she responded, netting a smile in response.

 

*

 

There was no questioning that the weather had turned. While the snows of the stories had yet to arrive, a deep, damp cold had settled over Moat Cailin and into her bones. As she brushed out her hair out in the morning, she was thankful for the extra layer of warmth it offered. Especially as so much of Moat Cailin was outside.

 

Maester Roan told her she had a new raven as they all broke their fast, and to meet him in his quarters – quarters that would eventually serve as a barn. She had curt with him. Why had he not brought the letter with him to the Great Hall?

 

As crossed the yard, her head ran through awful possibilities.   There would be no reason for Winterfell to write if nothing had happened. Was someone ill? Was it the war? Bran wasn’t due for his usual letter for another week and Arya rarely wrote alone – moreover, the joyous news of her betrothal had been attached to Bran’s last letter. In contrast, the King’s last raven had arrived only days ago in response to her own. He’d agreed no soldiers would be sent to Moat Cailin from further North, and admitted that he had forgotten that that had been the plan before the letters from the Wall became so disturbing. He added, in a terse postscript, that the Queen had lost the babe.   Don’t mention the pregnancy to others, he told her.

 

She knew this was not uncommon. Many women lost their first babes, and Queen Alys had not been so many moons along. But she couldn’t help but feel guilt for the jealously she had harbored. It didn’t seem fair. Hadn’t there already been enough loss? Why should a little child also bear it?

 

She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and shook out her hair before she met with the Maester. She did not apologize for her earlier tone, but she did attempt to be more solicitous, especially as she stood in his rooms.

 

But, it wasn’t the gray direwolf seal that met her when she flipped the letter over, but a blue mermaid.

 

That was unexpected.

 

She hadn’t had a letter from any person not family since Winterfell. Since Willas.

 

The letter was from Lady Wylla. They had met her briefly during the royal wedding. One didn’t simply forget the green hair. Arya had introduced Lady Wylla, along with her Lady Wynafred and her recent husband, upon the Manderly’s arrival. She had been proud of Arya’s courtesies, though her sister was a tad to familiar with the ladies.

 

Lady Wylla offered pleasant greetings and an invitation.

 

She and Prince Rickon were invited to visit White Harbor before the deep snows came. White Harbor had a small festival to inaugurate the coming of the season that so dominated the North.

 

When Rickon finished with his labors and before his lessons, she asked him to join her to pray before the weirwood. Mother had always taken her religious education in hand, but she didn’t think she should instruct Rickon in the ways of the Seven. He wasn’t given to songs or rituals, and he looked as Tully as the rest of them. Best not to emphasize it. But she wasn’t sure how to teach him to pray to the old Gods, she had never really learned, not that there was a liturgy or hymns. As she prayed to them both in the godswood, she feared that, distant from a sept and unfamiliar with the old gods, her prayers would reach neither the old or the new. But she brought Rickon to the weirwood, and had him sit with her in silence some days. Perhaps that was enough.

 

She didn’t tell him to pray for the niece or nephew he would never meet, but she knew if he had known, he would have done so fervently.

 

As they walked back, she told him, “White Harbor has extended us an exceedingly kind invitation. They would like us to visit in the coming moon.”

 

“Oh. Do we have to? I like it here.” While she had been fairly sure that was the case, it was good to hear.

 

“They have a festival. And you know of course, Arya had an excellent visit there.” It would be good for Rickon to practice at the courtesies required a Prince, before all her prior lessons faded away, here on the edge of the North.

 

“Could I bring Shaggy?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And you want to go.”

 

“I do, actually. I’ve never been to White Harbor. Arya speaks well of Lady Wylla, and she is not much older than I. It would be nice to spend time with her.”

 

“Then, I suppose yes. But not for too long. I don’t want to miss laying the roof!”


	18. Sansa

She and Rickon joined Ladies Wylla and Wynafryd to break their fast the morning after their late arrival. The Ladies were regaling Rickon with tales of what to expect from the coming festival while they ate their salted fish and cheese. She snacked until she felt pleasantly full. The journey had been easy, despite the season – and she had enjoyed the ride far more than usual. It felt good to move with purpose. Now, after a restful night in a big bed, surrounded by New Castle’s sturdy walls, she was excited, if apprehensive for the visit.

 

"My favorite part as a child was the berry ice." Lady Wynafryd told Rickon. "It's ice from the river, shaved thin like snow, before it is covered in a cold soup of boiled berries and honey. It's very sweet."

 

"You eat ice at a winter festival?" She asked, incredulous.

 

"It's certainly fitting. And delicious."

 

"And," her sister interjected, "you need some fuel for the games and the market."

 

The conversation turned to the expected stalls at the market. She remembered hearing about White Harbor's Winter Festival as a girl, and thinking it sounded like the most glorious party - if less elegant than the balls or tourneys of the South. Now it seemed eminently more practical then men charging at each on horseback. It made those final supply purchases and preparations before the crush of winter celebratory for the community, and reinforced the Manderly's position throughout their lands, before winter put those ties to the test. It was good Rickon was here, looking all the world like the Robb from her childhood memories.

 

She may have packed him a specific wardrobe, full of Stark grey, which he accented, as always, with large direwolf.

 

"Prince Rickon, I know a young man such as yourself, especially one living at as storied a location as Moat Cailin, must spend much time practicing your sword work. I asked our Master of Arms to coordinate some lessons for yourself and some of the boys your age. It seemed a chance to test you skills, and, perhaps find some friends for the festival."

 

He politely thanked them, and enquired after finding the yard. She was so proud of him. She knew that he likely wanted nothing more than to wander unaccompanied but for Shaggy, exploring the unfamiliar city, but he gave no indication.

 

A year ago, he would have scowled at the extremely kindly meant plan.

 

With Rickon gone, Lady Wynafryd seemed to deflate slightly: her affect less bright. They sat in a pleasing silence for a few minutes, dining on the remaining food.

 

Lady Wynafryd turned to her and asked, "Princess Sansa, I thought I might visit the sept this morning. Would you like join me?"

 

Lady Wylla stilled. Perhaps with displeasure? She couldn't determine its meaning, too focused on her surprise.

 

She hadn't been in a sept since shortly after her return to Winterfell. She'd grown accustomed to saving her prayers to the Seven among the weirwood trees as she offered her supplications to the old gods.

 

She quickly assented.

 

The scent hit her before they stepped inside. It was beautiful, of course. Smaller than the monstrosity in King's Landing, or Riverrun's beautiful building, where her parents had married, but larger than Winterfell's modest example. She kneeled beside Lady Wynafryd before the Mother, and, after gazing upon the statue, she let her eyes close.

 

The sweet and smoky incenses reminded her of her childhood mornings beside Mother, before the Mother.

 

She asked for comfort and care, for herself, and her siblings. She asked particularly for intercessions for Rickon that were not her role to request. But she did, nonetheless.

 

She moved to ask the Father for justice. She wished she might know what form to ask for, beyond the burning desire for him to offer her some calming balm.

 

To the Chrone, she directed a request for wisdom, and the peace that would emanate from its presence.

 

To the Warrior, she named Jon, King Robb, and all in the North seeking to keep them safe. Make their swords true, their shots firm, and their victory soon.

 

Finally, before the Stranger she named their dead. There were so many, but also, far fewer than there could have been. She remembered fearing Arya slain, and nightmares in the Red Keep of the King tormenting her over Robb's death. Before the shrouded figure, so unknowable, she asked the old gods for all the same.

 

She rose, wondering whether she ought to pray to the Smith. Lady Wylla met her eye from her position before the Maiden, and inclined her head to the door. She nodded, feeling content, and complete.

 

Lady Wynafryd remained where she began, before the Mother.

 

Once outside, Lady Wylla said simply, "She wants a babe."

 

"Don't we all."

 

"I suppose." Lady Wylla responded. "It doesn't really matter. It’s a married lady’s most important duty."

 

Her host directed them to the corner of the castle.

 

"Let’s visit the rookery.”

 

As they walked through the castle, Lady Wylla asked her of Moat Cailin. She happily related the progress made.

 

“But, it is nice to reside in a more complete castle. Its warmer, and more steady. Thank you for the kind invitation.”

 

“Of course!”

 

Upon their arrival, the Maester took one look, before answering the unasked question with a shake to his head.

 

Unneeded, he added, “No ravens for you, my lady.”

 

“Thank you.” Lady Wylla offered, and beat a quick retreat.

 

Once in the hallway, her host met her gaze and offered a knowing grimace. “It’s hard, you know, for us ladies who keep the Seven.”

 

The North Remembers and the North judges, she thought with a flash of frustration.

 

“I do. I pray the Maiden will intercede for you.”

 

“I fear she’s sick of hearing from me.”

 

“Is there one particular author you await?”

 

“Well, at the King’s wedding, I met a nice young man. A bit formal, but less concerned over matters of religion or original family origin. He was holding out hope for…a younger and more highborn maid, but as it appears she looks even further North, he began our correspondence.”

 

She giggled at the description. “You would make a fine Lady Cerwyn.”

 

Lady Wylla laughed.

 

“Aye. I like to think so. I invited him to the Festival, but I suppose its not to be. He wouldn’t arrive by tomorrow.”

 

“No, but its winter now. Ravens can be delayed.”

 

“Indeed. Its no matter. The Winter Festival brings all sorts of delights to White Harbor. Perhaps it will include a nice marriageable lord or two?”

 

*

 

Lady Wynafryd joined them in the library.

 

“Do you have plans for the afternoon?” the Lady asked.

 

Her sister offered, “I was going to visit the cloth merchants. Everyone should have their full set of wares, but it would be better to visit before the festival begins and the best is sold off.”

 

“That sounds lovely. You ought to join us, Lady Wynafryd. As you might expect, Moat Cailin does not keep me as apprised on the most recent fashions. I could use your advice.” Lady Wylla offered her a pleased smile.

 

They discussed colors, sleeves, and notions the on the journey to the market. It was slow going, as so many people stopped to greet the Manderlys, and offer their Princess a greeting. It reminded her of King’s Landing a bit, back before King Robert died and it all went terrible.

 

Everyone was very courteous.

 

The merchants were exceptionally pleased to see them, detailing the ships that had arrived to White Harbor to bring their wares from the South and Essos. They initially offered fine silks and lace, before being re-directed the goods more fitting the North.

 

“Winter is coming,” she intoned, generating a laugh from her companions.

 

A part her said she didn’t need or deserve a new gown. That it was a childish want and silly indulgence. Most of mother’s were still perfectly serviceable, though a few of the oldest had grown too short. Somehow, she had grown so much taller than mother. It seemed impossible in her mind, mother was forever a statuesque beauty in her memory, but the slimmest fitting dresses no longer enough length for her and she had retired them.

 

But, it was hardly as if Moat Cailin demanded an extensive wardrobe.

 

No, an indignant voice inside demanded she purchase cloth. I am a Princess! Princesses wear fine gowns, and replace those too small with new dresses without a thought!

 

They forget I am a Princess.

 

Or, they don’t even care.

 

They’re wrong.

 

The merchant brought forward a dusky lavender wool – Tully Red and Blue and Stark Grey and White all mixed together. It would be warm enough for Moat Cailin, but fine enough for court.

 

“What do you think of this,” she asked the ladies.

 

Lady Wylla lifted it to her face and hair, which was bound back with only a simple Northern braid from the temples.

 

“It looks lovely. It complements you features so well. You must buy it!”

 

She did.

 

Later, as envisioned her next project while chatting with Lady Wylla, a voice interrupted them.

 

“Princess Sansa, look what I found. It would be perfect.” Lady Wynafryd held forward a silver fox pelt – beautiful and sleek.  “For the neckline. It will keep you warm.”

 

*

 

The Festival was a joy.

 

Rickon waved at her from where the boys were engaging in competitive sled runs, his mouth turned purple by the berry ice. His lessons with swords, and the tales he had brought from Moat Cailin, had netted him a crew of boys his age. He seemed eager to demonstrate his prowess steering the repurposed shields.

 

The music was happy and loud. It was mostly Northern reels and jigs, but every so often she’d hear a tune she remembered from King’s Landing. She refused to let the songs make her flinch. She didn’t dance – it wouldn’t do to appear too wanton or worse, to be denied a partner – but as she stood back observing, her feet tapped below her skirts to the beat. Lady Wynafryd and her husband seemed a tad awkward at their first, but then, as the song wore on, they settled into themselves with each turn around the floor.

 

She gazed back and laughed at the unexpected sight. Shaggy had consented to serve as a sled dog, pulling Rickon and two new friends. This fearsome direwolf easily propelled them on the slick ground, rope clutched in his teeth.

 

As night fell, large bonfires were set to bring light and warmth for the ongoing festivities.

 

Beside her, Lady Wylla was pleasantly in her cups, though much of the mirth seemed internal. A letter had arrived from Lord Cley, apologizing for his inability to attend the festival , but otherwise offering many sweet words. She and Lady Wynafryd and dissected every line with Lady Wylla, reading into each tone and turn of phrase.

 

It looked promising.

 

She should write to the King to encourage the match. There was no way to tie White Harbor to Winterfell in this generation, but Castle Cerwyn’s nearness, and close ties to the Starks, would be the next best thing.

 

As they moved away from the crowd, it seemed time to raise a more serious topic.

 

“Tell me, Lady Wylla, where is your grandfather? I would have expected him to he here, and I’m fairly certain he is not in residence at Winterfell.”

 

Lady Wylla’s face fell from a bright smile, to a pensive frown, her tipsy frivolity fading, and her eyes darting about to ensure there would be no listening ears.

 

“How much news do you receive at Moat Cailin?”

 

“Little. There are few visitors for now, and the rookery is small.”

 

“The war to the North continues unabated, and is concerning. These creatures are things we fear from stories. I hear they are incredibly difficult to kill, with few weapons seeing any sort of success.”

 

“I have heard the same. Unfortunately, there is little Valyrian Steel to be had.”

 

“What there is is dragonglass, at Dragonstone. So they went South.”

 

She involuntarily sucked in a breath. Lady Wylla looked a bit shaken.

 

“The Lannisters?”

 

“Don’t hold it anymore. The Targaryen Queen captured it just recently, though the battle for the rest of the South remains. As soon as King heard, he asked Grandfather, and Maege Mormont, and few others well trusted to sail South and meet with her. They seek access to dragonglass, to impress upon the Queen our sovereignty and offer our friendship, and to detail the greater threat facing all Westeros.”

 

Would the Queen accept that? Her thoughts raced. This Targaryen must believe herself to be Queen of Seven Kingdoms, not Six, and the rumors in the Red Keep said she had dragons. Torrhen Stark kneeled for a reason. Would their battle for freedom all be for naught?

 

Beside her, Lady Wylla looked ill. Joffrey had once pointed out where King Aerys had killed her grandfather, and detailed how a body burns. She knew what Lady Wylla feared.

 

Disregarding propriety, she gave the other woman a hug.

 

“They’ll be alright, and we will as well. The North is strong.”


	19. Sansa

 

The knock at the door startled her, given the late hour. She was not asleep. She was not even in bed. She was awake too late, bathed by the luxury of many candles to light her room alone, relishing fresh books from New Castle's library and the chance to be alone, but warm and comfortable in the guest quarters that dwarfed the room serving such a purpose at Moat Cailin.

 

Lady Wynafryd was at the door, hair hastily braided, with a cloak thrown over what seemed to be a fine robe.

 

"Lady Wynafryd?"

 

"Princess Sansa. I'm sorry to bother you at such a late hour. There's been a raven."

 

She went cold inside.

 

"Is all well at Winterfell?"

 

"As far as I know. It's not from Winterfell. May I?"

 

She stepped back and welcomed the Lady inside.

 

"Who sent the letter?"

 

"That's the problem. We don't know."

 

Lady Wynafryd handed it forward. At first glance, she could see the strangeness: it had no seal, no name or title, and was written by a practiced, but unfamiliar hand.

 

But that paled in contrast with its content.

 

It denied Joffrey was a king.

 

It said the Targaryans were still the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

It identified the rightful monarch.

 

It did not claim that Aegon had survived the Lannister’s sack of King’s Landing.

 

It did not point to the Dragon Queen, newly arrived to Westeros.

 

It said it was Jon.

 

The letter claimed he was Prince Rhaegar’s son – Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna’s trueborn son.

 

Trueborn and the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

“What?” she asked.

 

“It arrived this evening. In the form you see before you. What do you know of its truth?”

 

She started down.

 

Her mind ran through the story of the Rebellion so often repeated through the North: Prince Rhaegar who stole a Stark girl, and locked her in the South. What they whispered he did to her, this woman who embodied justification for war and was dead as it ended.

 

They never spoke of Aunt Lyanna making her own choices, just as a casualty. But that is not the sum of a life.  

 

Princes and kings, though, can be cruel. Told they have divine right and believing themselves to be owed the world, they take it all, even that which it not theirs to have.

 

“Nothing.” she answered, muscles tense. “Father never spoke of Jon’s mother, but he also never indicated that Jon was anything other than our half-brother.”

 

“Oh.” Lady Wynafryd deflated.

 

“It doesn’t matter. Jon’s the Lord Commander. He’s sworn to the Night’s Watch.”

 

“And the North was once sworn to the Seven Kingdoms. It’s a time of change and oaths seem less fixed.” The stood, staring at the parchment, so ordinary looking a thing to be so incendiary.

 

“Do you think…he would he have sent it?” Lady Wynafryd ventured.

 

“Jon? No! I can think of few men more firm in their commitments. Besides, Jon looks North, beyond the Wall, not below the Neck.”

 

“Then who? Why?”

 

“Someone in the Red Keep. Someone who seeks to spread discord and chaos, and distract Danaerys from King’s Landing.”

 

***

 

After a long night with little sleep, she joined Ladies Wylla and Wynafryd in a solar for a tense and intimate breakfast. They sat, engaged in quiet consumption and off hand comments on the weather, before Lady Wylla looked her straight in the eyes and asked "You know how we spoke about Grandfather and the others with the Targaryan Queen - do you think whoever sent the raven, sent one to Dragonstone as well?"  
  
"Wylla!" Her sister responded sharply.  
  
"Princess Sansa knows.  I told her last week."  
  
"You told? What could have possessed you?" Lady Wynafryd turned to face her, "I beg you pardon, Princess, but the trip to Dragonstone is very secret and dangerous. Grandfather likely shouldn't have even told us and Father, but he feared he wouldn't return."  
  
"Forgive your sister, Lady Wynafryd, I asked her directly where Lord Wyman was, as he isn't at Winterfell and missed the Festival.  Fear not.  I will be discrete. I understand the need for negotiations to be successful, and how such discussions might be seen in much of the North."  
  
"Of course. We're simply on edge." Lady Wynafryd smoothed over her earlier reaction.  "Dragons. Real dragons, and woman who believes she has a right to the Seven Kingdoms."  
  
"I want only for the to North remain secure, from threats mortal and otherwise, and that King Robb be an effective ruler. Sharing knowledge of the negotiations would endanger both."  
  
Lady Wylla directed towards her sister a look of import.  
  
"As for your question, Lady Wylla. I do suspect they received a letter as well. The negotiations were likely what prompted the raven, but surely the Northern delegation will explain that as a brother of the Night's Watch, Jon has withdrawn any claims he might have had, even if the letter is true.  It's more likely Jon is Father's son, and this is just a lie.  The letter in fact, could strengthen her position by declaring again the Targaryans to have rightful possession of the Iron Throne."  
  
She hoped that was enough for the Dragon Queen: Six Kingdoms and a throne.  
  
"Speaking of ravens, might I borrow two? One for Winterfell and the other for the Wall."  
  
***  
  
Later that morning she transcribed the letter for the King, and provided some initial thoughts on the veracity of the claims and their purpose, regardless of their truth. Then she started to draft the more difficult letter.  
  
_Dear Jon,_  
I write to you from White Harbor, where Rickon and I have been celebrating the Winter Festival. It has been an excellent diversion, and a nice change of scene from Moat Cailin. The people of Moat Cailin greatly recommend the place, but the conditions are sparse. Nothing, I'm sure, compared to the Wall.  You should be proud of Rickon, he has been an excellent Prince on this visit, and of late.  Samwell Tarly's instruction seemed to mark a new phase of dedication to his studies, and Sam's stories of your skill with a sword has certainly proved helpful in encouraging his efforts with the Master of Arms.  He idolizes you.   
  
He has shot up in height the last few months, and is teetering closer to young man.  He reminds me of our childhood often.  
  
As you may know, a letter was sent to White Harbor with rather surprising allegations about you. It claimed that you are not Father's son, but the true-born son of Prince Rhaegar and Aunt Lyanna. The Targaryans were known to practice polygamy, and the letter alleges they married before a heart tree.  
  
I have no facts beyond what we were told before.  I have no way to evaluate the truth of the statements in the letter, and suspect we never shall. But, I imagine the letter would have been quite disconcerting to you. It certainly seems so to me. Your kindness and attention has given me great comfort in the past, and I hope my letter might offer the same through some context with which to understand the letter.  
  
First, whether or not Father was the man responsible for the act of bringing you into the world, I have no doubt that he loved you as a son, and neither should you.  
  
You should accept that, along with the knowledge that regardless of its truth, the letter simply seeks to cause disharmony and unrest in the North and challenge the fragile peace. Many lies are told with that purpose.  Similarly, even if the contents speak true, it seeks to sow disunity and threat. Why else reveal it now?  
  
If you worry that it is the latter, you may have in the forefront of your mind the stories we heard about the Rebellion as children. They painted the relationship in question in a singular manner.  That may be true. However, I can tell you, having lived through a war in an enemy's camp, thatwhile the are some immutable facts - such as King Aerys' attack on our grandfather and uncle - some the stories told about the proceedings differed from what I heard once I returned.  While there were clearly Lannister falsehoods, others were likely the case that the truth lay between the tellings. Perhaps the stories of our childhood match the truth exactly. If so, I'll remind you that a wise man once told me that a man's honor is based only on his own actions. Perhaps, if the letter is true, she went willingly, and married Prince Rhaegar, and later changed her mind.  Having observed King Robert, and heard of him as a husband, I can understand not wanting to marry such a man.  I also empathize with a woman, who even if she spurned affections forced on her, could still love her child.  All of this is to say, do not cast yourself as a player in a nightmare we heard whispered in our youth.  
  
If the letter is true, I'm sure you can understand why Father initially told no one, but you might question his ongoing silence. For that, I would offer that the tales I heard in King's Landing about Princess Elia, Princess Rhanaeys, and Prince Aegon were even more brutal than those told in the North. There was a real threat. Moreover, that threat was continuing. I heard that Father and King Robert quarreled over whether assassins should be sent after a pregnant Danaerys Targaryan, late of Dragonstone.  I also heard that some of King Robert's natural born children vanished, presumably because they were a threat to the Lannister's rule.  A son of Prince Rhaegar, true born or not, would always be in danger. Silence, however hurtful to you and others, very well could have been the wisest and safest choice for our entire family.  
  
Perhaps these thoughts are in response to concerns you don't have.  But if such worries plagued you, I wished to offer my perspective.  
  
Be safe and well.  
  
Love,  
Sansa  
  
***  
  
The raven seemed to have set the Manderly family on edge. Lady Wynafryd spent even more time in the sept. Lady Wylla was more subdued, with fewer trips to enquire after notes from Clay Cerwyn. Rickon noticed and asked about the growing tension. She promised to explain once they left White Harbor. He accepted her contention that it was important, but would keep, perhaps because she seemed unphased.  She had much practice with keeping a calm countenance.  
  
Besides, while she desperately feared the dragons making His Grace into a second King who Knelt and that all they gave for Northern independence would fade like a summer snow, winter was coming and there was a greater threat.  Besides, she thought darkly, you could only die once.  
  
She felt guilty, but the Manderly's concern almost made her feel better. For so long her concerns had been hers alone.  As the only Stark in King's Landing she feared for herself and her family's lives among those who cheered their doom.  In Winterfell, she'd worried for herself, that one day she'd simply forget to be or one morning she’d wake to she'd have no where to go.    
  
A chorus of concern outside her own head seemed easy by comparison.

 

Besides, the Manderly’s also seemed to pour their anxiety into forced activity. After Lady Wynafryd’s daily prayers, they explored White Harbor. Today, in light of her imminent departure, Lady Wylla had suggested one more pass through the market. She didn’t intend to buy anything.

 

Then she spotted it.

 

It was simple, a skein of embroidery silk, but the color was one she saw only in her dreams now. She petted it.  She knew exactly what it would be.

 

She quickly collected the other skeins of silks in hues from the same family.

 


	20. Sansa

The return from White Harbor confirmed that winter was truly here. It snowed several times on the journey. The second night, when the world had that quiet muffled tone brought from a blanket of snow, as her fingers began giving life to a lupine form with her new silk, she explained to Rickon some of the Manderly’s disquiet.

 

“You know the story of the Rebellion.”

 

“Of course, Maester Luwin explained it.”

 

“Well, a letter arrived to White Harbor claiming that Jon isn’t Father’s son, but Aunt Lyanna’s with Prince Rhaegar. There’s no way to know, and it doesn’t matter. He’s still your brother, regardless of the truth. It was just concerning.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Many reasons, some about now, and how it makes the South view the North.”

 

“It makes them like us even less.” His voice grew higher and anxious. He’s entire childhood, the North had been under threat.

 

“Perhaps. But also, it’s about how people feel themselves about recent history.” She reached out to grasp his hand. “We’re young, both of us. Imagine how for those Father’s age, how the world has changed and the battles they fought to make it to today. Sometimes, you can only do that with telling yourself certain stories and believing fervently one narrative. The thought that Aunt Lyanna may have married Prince Rhaegar upsets that all. It’s less simple.”

 

“I don’t want Jon to become a dragon.”

 

She laughed.

 

“Jon looks just like Father. He has Ghost. He serves in the Night’s Watch and all he wants to do is keep the North and Westeros safe. I don’t think you have much to worry about. He’s a direwolf here.” She touched his chest above his heart.

 

“Speaking of wolves, I am so proud of you.” Shaggy raised his head, “And Shaggy of course. You both were so grown up on our trip. You were polite and princely, even when you didn’t want to be.” Rickon straightened slightly under the praise.

 

“Does that mean I can explore on my own again?”

 

“No. But its not a question of punishment, it’s a question of winter. Even grown Northmen know not to go out in the snows alone.”

 

“Fine.” He drew out the word.

 

“Now tell me about your discoveries exploring the city. I mainly stayed with our hosts.”

 

When they finally reached Moat Cailin, Rickon excitedly rode ahead to meet Ser Piet. He welcomed them back, surrendering Moat Cailin to her, and confirmed that all had been well in their absence.

 

In the last hour of light, she took food out to Florian and Jonquil. She laughed as they greeted her, eager to eat from her palm. Florian consented to her pets upon the back of his head. From her perch, Jonquil stretched out her wings an impressive distance.

 

Little bird no longer, she thought.

 

That night, snug in her room, which, while much less fine than that in New Castle was hers, she dreamt of flying.

 

*

A letter from the King reported, obliquely, on the negotiations at Dragonstone and directed her to prepare for a coming army. Moat Cailin largely ceased new construction and focused firmly on gathering supplies in light of the letter.

 

On the day of their estimated arrival, she climbed one of the old towers to view the lands surrounding Moat Cailin.

 

Spying the banners, she smiled.

 

Red and blue.

 

She hurried down the stairs to gather the welcoming party.

 

“Ser Brynden, welcome to Moat Cailin.” She greeted.

 

He offered a wide smile and slight bow, “Princess Sansa.”

 

“May I introduce Prince Rickon.”

 

“Prince Rickon, it is good to meet you.”

 

“You too, Uncle.”

 

Ser Brynden nodded her brother. “You have some Tully in you. I see your mother and Edmure in your face.”

 

“Really?” Rickon asked.

 

“Oh yes. At dinner, I’ll tell you about them as children.”

 

She looked forward to the conversation almost as much as Rickon, though she hoped she might control her features a bit more.

 

“This is a fine keep you have here. Much more than I was expecting given the stories told during wartime. Now, why don’t we share bread and salt and see to the horses.”

 

That night, with the Riverlands men settled into Moat Cailin for a few days rest, she welcomed Uncle Brynden into her chambers for a quiet conversation.

 

“Tell me, Uncle, the news. It has been sparse of late. In winter, ravens too often are waylaid to include sensitive information in letters.”

 

Uncle Brynden cracked his knuckles and resettled in his seat before beginning.

 

“Shortly after his wedding, your brother sent letters to Great Houses informing them of the threat to Westeros. The Lord Commander did so as well. But, we are all enurned to requests from the Wall, and responding to the King in the North would only anger the Iron Throne. There was little appetite for more war, and to be honest, few believed it to be a real threat. As far as I’m aware, little help was offered.”

 

She nodded, and he continued. “Then, the dragons took Dragonstone. It was poorly defended after Stannis’s death, but I think that jolted the South. Many men thought, if magic had returned sufficient that three dragons the size of those of old fly, perhaps King Robb’s letter that the dead and their master’s march on the Wall was true.”

 

“We brought the wildlings South of the Wall. I don’t know of any way to prove the North believes the threat to be real more than that.”

 

“Aye. So, then Iron Throne called the banners from the Crownlands, the Stormlands, the Westerlands, the Vale, and the Reach. All but the Reach responded.”

 

“But not the Riverlands?”

 

“Lord Tywin is smart, for surely its him with the power here and not that fool on the throne. He knows better than to ask a question he didn’t know the response. It’s why he didn’t even bother to ask for the spears of Dorne. Better to wait to call the Riverlands, and hope that stories of dragons and Essoi warrior inflame deep historical fears greater than current grievances. I suspect he meant to call the Riverlands after a dragon roasted a few villages.”

 

“The Vale responded, but the Reach didn’t?”

 

“The Tyrells were staunch Targaryan loyalists before the Rebellion. Lord Twyin made a gamble that their alliance during the War of the Five Kings, and the power it afforded them, would be sufficient. Their men and wealth make them a powerful ally and threatening enemy – far more than the Riverlands. He couldn’t risk offending them by failing to call for their banners, and driving them to the Targaryan’s side if they were not already there.”

 

“But they didn’t come.”

 

“No. I think he should have known. If they’d married Lady Margaery to Joffrey, as was apparently the plan, I suspect they would have, but as you well know, she became Lady Tully instead. If Lord Tywin could have controlled his grandson, he likely could have had their men. Perhaps they’ll fight for the dragons, or simply wait it out and rely on historical ties and their absence from the field to curry favor with the new queen. Lady Margaery was unsure when we left.”

 

She smiled a bit at Lady Tully, before asking, “But the Vale, they wouldn’t fight for His Grace, but they will for King Joffrey?”

 

“Your Aunt has remarried – Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin for the Small Council. He seems to have convinced her to call the Knights of the Vale. Many of the bannermen did not respond, but enough did. Her new husband is viewed with some suspicion. His holdings in the Vale are minor and his family foreign. Meanwhile, Lysa…she’s but a regent and her time in King’s Landing, combined with her tendency to hold up in the Eyrie, mean she has weak ties to her bannermen.”

 

She exhaled at his words. “So the South is preparing for war. Yet you’re here?”

 

He laughed. “So, you know your brother sent men to Dragonstone,”

 

“They sought dragonglass.”

 

“The Targaryan Queen asked what she could get in return. And, the negotiators had an idea. The banners of the Riverlands had not been called, but a summons was expected. If it so happenedthat the banners were not in the Riverlands, but responding to the Lord Commander’s request for assistance, there would be an honorable and legally acceptable excuse for their absence. So, the Northmen wrote to your Uncle and he agreed. The Riverlands would be in the North, fighting the threat of the Others. This would deny the Lannisters Tully bannermen. In return, the Queen promised to spare the Riverlands. A fine trade for otherwise useless rocks.”

 

She thought of riding through the Riverlands, and the kind people she had met at Riverrun. Quietly, and delicately, she asked, “But, this leaves the Riverlands unprotected.”

 

Uncle Brynden sighed. “Can’t fight dragons. They’ll win in the end. Our men could be called to die for a King we believe illegitimate, or we could bend a knee and broker a deal that should save many of our soldiers and smallfolk a pointless death. Meanwhile, assuming the threat your brothers speak of is real, should the North fall, the Riverlands are next.” He looked at his hands, and for a moment so very old and tired. “It is not a great solution, but war offers few of those.”

 

“Speaking of brothers…”

 

“Yes, we did receive an odd letter with claims on that.”

 

“I know nothing.” He nodded in response, releasing a deep sigh. “And, the Targaryan Queen, will it drive her to turn her armies North?”

 

“Eventually, I don’t know. She agreed to deal for the dragonglass, accepted Edmure’s fealty, and allowed us to ride to you. What I’ve heard is that she seeks the Iron Throne first.”

 

“So we wait.”

 

“That’s what war is, waiting.”

 

She closed her eyes and thought about dragons and wondered if dragon’s breath was like wildfire. They sat for a few moments in silence. But it is a poor hostess who terrifies her guests, then abandons them to the fears she raised.

 

“So, you mentioned Lady Tully.” She asked.

 

“It is a bold move, to help orchestrate a betrothal, having never met the bride.”

 

“And?”

 

“Right,” he granted her.

 

“So it’s a good match?”

 

“Yes. She’s very beautiful, smart, and canny. She wants to do well for her people. She complements Edmure. She’s good at taking his intentions, and making them real. But, she also seems sustained by his attention. I think, Seven willing, it will make for a strong marriage.”

 

“Good. I’m so glad.” She felt a flush of pride. She appeared to be fairly adept at match making.

 

“Still, bold.”

 

“I merely thought, having met several Tyrell men, and been impressed by Lord Willas, that their sister would likely be similar, and Uncle Edmure could use a beautiful, ambitious, but not cruel partner. Not to mention their resources.”

 

“Which, I will admit, went a long way to preparing a ravaged Riverlands for winter.”

 

“You see.”

 

“You did well. And you seem to be succeeding here. ” She blushed. “Your mother would be proud.”


	21. Sansa, Rickon, Sansa

The departure of the Tully men seemed to mark a transition. The days were shorter, the nights colder, and the tensions higher. The men at Moat Cailin were soldiers. They knew how to fight mortal enemies, and had achieved many victories against forces from Targaryens, Greyjoys, and Lannisters, to wildlings and bandits.

But they were also Northmen. They had been weaned on the same stories as she, and the idea that armies of the dead marched towards the Wall chilled them more than the falling temperatures.

 

The entire keep was focused on winter and war. There was no more construction, with its pleasant payoff as the number of rooms in the keep grew - only training and waiting for the King to call all but a skeleton force North.

 

Plus, now Rickon was angry with her.

 

Rickon had awoken early as the Tully forces prepared to ride out. He'd come to her room, before she had broken her fast, and, standing as tall as he possibly could before her, dressed in his warmest clothes and with his practice sword on his belt, had declared, "I should go with them."

 

"I'm good with a sword, I practice here and did well in the sparing at White Harbor. I can go with them, squire, and help protect the North."

 

Shaking her head before words even left her mouth, she denied him. "Rickon, no, you're too young."

 

"I will be three and ten on my next name day." He spoke fiercely.

 

"Which is over eleven moons away."

 

"Plenty of boys go to war at younger ages."

 

Dressed for the cold, like the squires, not armored in plate or boiled leather, with his face framed by auburn curls, Rickon would fit in with the Tully forces, no question. The ease with which he could be incorporated into the army headed North terrified her.

 

"Boys who are not you. You are not old enough to go to war. You are needed here."

 

"For what? This is to be my castle but you run everything! I'm not needed here. Let me go keep the North safe."

 

"No,” she declared, pitching her voice steady and commanding as the fear continued to rise, “you will remain here."

 

"You just want me here because they won't listen to you if I'm not! Then what good are you!"

 

She had shut her eyes out of frustration. "Rickon, I help run Moat Cailin, just as I helped run Winterfell for the King. You are too young and untrained for that task, just as you are unready to go to fight in a war.” To die in a war.

 

"I am not a child!"

 

"You are certainly acting like one. Your King directed you to be here. You are to be the keep's Lord. Your honor and duty dictate you stay here, even if you do not desire it."

 

He had just stood there, his face a rictus of frustration, while Shaggy had paced behind him.

 

"Now, you and I go to your rooms. You will change into clothes appropriate for a Prince seeing soldiers off to war, which you will do politely, and you will not leave under their banners."

 

He had not, but in the fortnight hence, he'd given her the silent treatment at meals and during her lessons about managing a keep.

 

And now the letters from King's Landing had arrived, and even Bran's letter seemed short and unhappy. His had shrunk in length and topic – nothing but a recitation of comings and goings at Winterfell. No mention of how he was, or Arya’s state.

 

She’d saved the King's letter for last, hoping Bran's would somehow sustain her for whatever it contained.

 

It did not.

 

The armies of the dead were progressing. A confrontation at a place called Hardhome had resulted in many casualties from the Northern forces, Watch, and wildings. He expected a major confrontation before the year was out.  

 

The dragonglass had arrived, and the Tully forces would shortly, but it would be a challenge. Letters had been sent to the surrounding keeps, mustering even the Southern-most Northern for forces, and they, along with Moat Cailin, and the crannogmen were to ride for Winterfell.

 

Rickon, as his heir – the heir who could have heirs of his own – was to go to White Harbor. If the battles went poorly, a ship could carry him to Essos, and perhaps Rickon could try and retake the North come spring.

 

She, he asked, to return home to Winterfell. He was departing for the front, and she was needed there.

 

War was truly here.

 

*

 

Sansa was upset. Instead of a morning with lessons and training with the soldiers, she asked him to join her in the godswood, as she often did when she wanted to have a serious conversation. He was probably in trouble. He might have deserved it. Well some of it. He was right! He should have ridden out with them. But had behaved poorly, then made it worse. He had hoped if he’d stayed quiet, she’d forget what he said. But it had just made her mouth pinch together more.

 

She was probably going to tell him off now. She was doing that thing with her hands – worrying at her knuckles like they themselves were the problem.

 

Sansa sat before the weir wood, finding her knees so gracefully, and gestured for him to join her. Better to stay standing, like a man. Shaggy, however, laid beside her, his big eyes beseeching her own.

 

She began. “Rickon, do you understand why I refused to let you go North with Uncle Brynden?”

 

He looked down, and gave a slight nod.

 

“I know you think you are nearly a man grown. And you have dealt with things no child ought to, so certainly, there is a little truth to that.” He stared at the packed snow, and the swirls of dirt tracked upon it while she spoke. But Shaggy watched her.

 

“I remember thinking the same of myself when I rode South with Father, already betrothed. I thought myself a lady, soon to be flowered and married. I came to find how wrong I was. I was just a child then, as you remain. And to so suddenly have the remnants of your childhood ripped from you – it’s hard. Even if I could have had a guarantee from Gods that you would be physically safe, I would have protected you from that.” Her voice was steady, though her hand shuddered a bit as it ran up down Shaggy’s back.

 

“That’s why I didn’t want you to go. Because you don’t have to lose your childhood yet. There are other reasons, as I told you before. You’re important to the North because of whom you are, not just what you can do. That means you have to justify that importance with your actions, and think of what the whole North needs, not what you want alone.”

 

“Yes.” He offered, quietly, while observing his shoes. The left was scuffed.

 

“That’s even more true now.”

 

He met her eyes. They gone a bit red, which made the pupils all the more vivid.

 

“The soldiers from Riverrun, they said that Robb, that the King, was going to go to the front too?”

 

“Yes. They were right. He has already departed.”

 

“That’s why. Why I needed to go.”

 

“You wanted to protect the King?”

 

“I could, you know, I could!” She didn’t seem to understand.

 

“I know you and Shaggy would have done as much as possible to keep him safe. Was there another reason you wanted to go?”

 

She was staring at him, looking at him like she could see inside his mind.

 

“Can’t be left behind if you’re already there.” He whispered.

 

Her eyes closed a minute, hard, and then reopened. “He’ll do his best to come back, and the people there with him will do their best to ensure the same. You being there, it would just put you in danger too.”

 

“I’m sorry I was mean. I thought if I made you mad you’d let me go.”

 

“I know.”

 

“I’m sorry I made you sad.”

 

“I know.” She patted beside her again, and he joined her this time. She leaned in, giving him a tight, one-armed embrace, while still petting Shaggy before them.

 

“Mother and Father would be here if they could. I know that. Father,” she took a breath, “Father was willing to confess to things he didn’t do, to swear – honor be damned – so Arya and I would be safe and so he could survive for us. I know if the opportunity to be here for you had been there, he would have seized it.”

 

He nodded and felt her body move with his.

 

“Besides, think of who did come home to you. Me. Arya. King Robb. I can’t promise we’ll always come back. We don’t always have the choice, but I know we will if we can.”

 

“Ok.”

 

She gestured for Shaggy to budge over, and she shifted to face him.

 

“Now, Rickon.” She took his hands in hers. “The North does need something of you. Not to fight, but to go to White Harbor. The Others, they don’t like water. You could be safe, and quickly put on a ship if needed.”

 

“To hide there? How is that honorable?”

 

“No.” She brushed her thumb over his knuckles. “Not hiding, but giving the North something to fight for. Even if they fall, even if the King falls, you’ll be safe and the North will continue. But also, I wrote to Ladies Wynafryd and Wylla. They are writing to the houses of the North. They are offering a place of refuge for children throughout the North. Your presence there will show others its safe. You’ll need to be a leader for all the other children. Can you do that? Can you be brave, and look after them, and if need be, keep them safe?”

 

“Yes.” He said it like an oath. It was a Stark’s duty to look after the North, and he would be looking after the North’s children.

 

“And you, you’ll stay here? I didn’t mean what I said before. Everyone here would listen to you, no matter whether I’m here or not. They like you.” She was so good at running everything. All the men listened to here, even the really old and really tall ones. She would tell him often in the lessons she gave him about the importance of being respected, and how to choose your words carefully, and why it was important to consider others’ motivations when planning your own effots. But, he thought it was mostly the way she could give that stare, where you felt judged and small. Even Ser Piet listened to her when she looked at him like that.

 

“No, when most of the soldiers from Moat Cailin go North to fight, I will head with them to Winterfell.”

 

“No, you should stay here. You shouldn’t go there.”

 

She squeezed his hands, “The King asked me to go.”

 

“It’s safer here.”

 

“Maybe, but I’m needed there. Bran and Arya are there, and I can’t leave them alone when I’m needed.”

 

“But, you were sad there. Smaller.”

 

She smiled at him, small but bright and said, “Sometimes a person is just sad. Maybe, some parts of Winterfell made it harder, but I would have been sad here too. Don’t worry. Winterfell won’t make me different. It was my home, well before you were born, and it will be again. But I have treasured being here at Moat Cailin with you.”

 

*

Maester Roan caught her as she was directing Ser Long about preparing the horses for their departure on the morrow.

 

“Princess, you have a raven from White Harbor.”

 

A flood of cold passed through her body. Rickon! Rickon had only left a week before. Nothing could have gone wrong. Right? But, when she turned over the letter he presented, the seal wasn’t the expected merman or direwolf, but black, pressed with a thumb and not a sigil. This seemed to be a troublesome pattern of late. Inside, there were no names, but she couldn’t help but recognize the writing.

 

Willas. Willas was writing her.

 

The letters were small, as if to make the letter the more unassuming.

 

_I hope this letter finds you at your new home. I was informed the raven could be redirected._

_The news we’re receiving of the North is unnerving. Had I not met the steady and matter-of-fact Northerners, I would believe those who say this all reflects unsettled minds and flights of fancy. But perhaps it’s a time when truth reflects storybooks and old histories. I don’t know if the news has reached you, but the Targaryens have returned to Dragonstone._

_Nonetheless, an enemy that raises the dead to fight against the living makes even dragonfire pale. We received a letter from your brother outlining the threat._

_You should consider coming South. There is a place for you, and your youngest brother, at my own brother’s estate. He will hide you there. Our mutual family would spirit you both through their lands. Winter has just begun to touch us here, and I hope these Others remain distant terror._

_I know the King’s stated plans, if you were to return South, and despite his current divided attention, your journey and stay would not be without risk. Moreover, traveling through war zone would expose you to more mundane dangers, but if you favor fire, I will do all in my power to keep you safe._

_I owe you a great deal. You advice in your last letter spurred me forward. My wife, and I are expecting a babe shortly after this letter reaches you. I did not know how much one could love a person they had never even met, until she told me she was with child._

_Whether you remain in the North, or reach my brother, stay safe and warm. Spring will come again._


	22. Sansa

Bundled in the inn’s bedroom, two-thirds of the way back to Winterfell, she fingered the handle of the knife she had taken from Moat Cailin’s armory before her departure. It was unfamiliar, and uglier than her’s. Its balance was certainly less fine. It felt more like a weapon than her knife, which had felt like love, and trust, and words of support unspoken.

 

Before riding out, she had visited the Inn. She had pressed her knife into Erla’s hands and told her to keep herself safe. Arya would understand. Or maybe she wouldn’t, and really, that would be all the better.

 

She supposed she could have given Erla this knife, or any out of Moat Cailin’s armory and she wouldn’t have know the difference. But that would have felt like a lie.

 

She looked at this weapon and thought of the men who frightened her. She could hardly believe the news. Lord Tywin was dead. He had led an attack against the Targaryen forces – men from the Westerlands, Stormlands, and Crownlands all ready to crush wave after wave of Targaryens as they departed the safety of Dragonstone and reached the greater continent. The men in the tavern had said he had prepared ring after ring of archers, spearmen, and catapults armed with wildfire to take down the dragons.

 

But it appeared the saying is true, fire can’t burn the dragon. But, it could burn the Hand of the King.

 

She wondered if it would burn a King?

 

She thanked the gods the Riverlands forces had not been there, though he was no safer in the North. Though, perhaps, the battles were less senseless then masses of men turned to dust by dragons. She imagined Uncle Bryndan, writhing as his armor melted around him.

 

She had written Uncle Edmure a letter, to be relayed through White Harbor, right before she had left Moat Cailin. She had told him that she was so heartened to hear he and his wife were well, that his forces were a vital contribution to the war, and it had been a joy to see Uncle Bryndan when he had passed through. She related that the King had said the Tully men had arrived with the main force, though likely someone had already passed such information along. She told him Rickon had been sent to safety, but not where, and noted that she was headed to Winterfell, to offer her own contributions to the war effort.

 

At the end of the letter, she gave congratulations to Lady Margaery, to pass along to her brother, in light of his marriage and coming child.

 

It wouldn’t do to repay Willas’s deep kindness, and the risk to so many inherent in his letter, with a raven refusing his offer and threatening discovery of the offer.

 

Besides, she didn’t know how to write that letter. She didn’t want to think the words it made her feel, let alone commit them to paper.

 

If the King hadn’t thought to send Rickon to White Harbor, she might have accepted the refuge he offered. She might have bundled Rickon up, and run away in the middle of the night, abandoning the North and all its people, just to keep him safe. But, a port city, with ships ready to depart at the mere threat of an attack by the Others, was safer than hiding inland in the Reach, especially given the journey they would have undertaken to get there.

 

So she told her good aunt to wish him well, thought that he would be a good father, and rode home to Arya and Bran.

 

*

 

When they entered the courtyard, it was only Bran waiting for her, sitting tall in his chair.

 

“Welcome home Sansa!” She dismounted, and gave him a strong hug, before introducing her companions.

 

Once inside, she bent near his ear and asked, “Where’s Arya?”

 

The Queen may be busy with other tasks, but surely Arya would greet her.

 

“She’s…she’s not here.”

 

“Not here?”

 

Bran glanced around to see what ears might be listening in to their conversation.

 

“When the King rode North with as many men Winterfell and the surrounding keeps could spare, she told Robb and Smalljon that she could join them as an official member of the army, or she would follow them and fight on her own, but that given the current threat, she refused to stay at Winterfell to play Princess.”

 

“She did what?”

 

“Smalljon said he believed she would, and that she’d be safer in camp. And that she was right to want to protect her current and future homes. Robb threw up his hands and assented.”

 

“So she’s at the front?”

 

“She said she could do more good there, and that the North needs more Starks in the battle. Rickon’s too young and well…” he gestured between the pair of them and sighed.

 

Her heart was beating so fast, a tattoo of Arya, Arya, Arya, Arya. She thought of Jon and Sam Tarly’s fear of the Others, and tried to map it along her little sister’s face.

 

“I certainly must make my greetings to the Queen, in that case, if Arya has been absent.” She tried to focus on propriety. “Dinner? In your quarters?”

 

“Of course. Sansa, the Queen…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Nevermind, she will likely want to tell you.”

 

*

After quickly freshening up and certainly not thinking about Arya’s pointy little sword against creatures over eight feet tall, she reached the Queen’s chambers, where she had been told the Queen was resting. The guard at the door ducked inside, then held the door open to welcome her into the Queen's chambers. She sunk into a low curtsy and bowed her head.

 

"Your Grace."

 

She raised her eyes, and was a tad surprised to find the Queen appeared a picture of health: plump cheeks, bright of pale skin, and thick hair.

 

"Princess Sansa. Thank you for coming."

 

"Of course your Grace."

 

"Take a seat." Queen Alys gestured at the incongruous chair set beside the bed.

 

"How was your journey?"

 

"Well. One benefit of so many soldiers headed North, the roads were fairly well traveled."

 

"Good, good."

 

At that moment, Maester Luwin entered the room.

 

"My Queen...and Princess Sansa," he stated the later with surprise. “I didn’t know you had yet arrived.”

 

"Maester Luwin, it's nice to see you again." she greeted with a smile.

 

He turned to the Queen and quizzed her on her physical symptoms.

 

"They are the same as always." He nodded, and felt her pulse and her stomach.

 

"Nothing amiss..." he looked down.

 

"I've felt nothing, nor have the maids seen anything."

 

"Good. I will leave you. But Princess Sansa."

 

"Yes?"

 

"Speak of nothing stressful or worrisome."

 

"I will not."

 

Maester Luwin retreated and she offered Queen Alys a questioning look.

 

"I am with child again."

 

"Congratulations!"

 

"That's why Robb asked you to come. He thought I might need some assistance, but it was - is - so early, he didn't want to say anything in the letter in case I lost the baby."

 

"How far long?"

 

"Just a little less than six moons. And a fortnight ago, Maester Luwin declared I most likely must spend the remainder in bed. Much to go."

 

She reached out for the Queen's hand. "But you are well on your way. And this is such a blessing."

 

Queen Alys smiled. "Aye. I'm glad you're here. Winterfell needs someone, and," her smile turned brittle, "I am unable to fulfill that role as of now."

 

"Winterfell will not turn to dust from two week's inattention. Besides, it is nice for me to have returned home. It's good to be back within Winterfell's walls."

 

Given Maester Luwin’s order, they chatted on Moat Caitlin's changes and not any of the more relevant topics, until a maid arrived to see to the Queen.

 

"I will take my leave, if it pleases you my Queen. I'm afraid the journey has left me quite tired."

 

"Of course, have a good supper and sleep well."

 

She curtsied on her way out, and set off to find Bran. He was in the library, books spread before him.

 

"Bran. Supper?"

 

"Of course. Let's head to my rooms. I have a table."

 

Walder stirred in the corner and followed Bran to the stairs. There he lifted her brother in his arms and set down the winding steps with practiced ease. She eyed the chair, and extended an offer to carry it below, but Bran declined.

 

Instead, she followed close behind Walder, on the final level walked ahead to find a maid in the hallway.

 

"Please, would you bring two servings of supper to Prince Bran's quarters."

 

She marveled at the hallways she knew so well. They seemed so sturdy and bright, and filled with so many candles after such an absence.

 

When alone and settled before the table, she began, "The Queen is with child again."

 

"Aye. Hopefully, this time..." his voice trailed off.

 

"She and the King - are they happy?"

 

"I believe so. She's good with the lords and the small folk and the keep.   They like her, though, now everyone focuses mainly on when she will birth an heir. I think Robb likes her, she’s the one person able to convince him to relax, and she seems to like him, but, as expected, his attention has mostly focused on the war."

 

"Good."

 

Her stomach rolled with tension, and it was a challenge to eat the stew before her, though it was much finer than the cooking on the road, or even Moat Cailin. But it was winter and certainly not time for food to go to waste. She grilled Bran on Arya’s preparation for war, her relationship with Smalljon, and presence at the front.

 

“Sansa, I know you’re afraid for her, I am as well, but, I don’t think there is a world in which should could have been convinced to stay. And she has Nymeria. Robb will do his best to keep her from the fiercest fighting I suspect, and she has a pair of Jons who will look after her.” Bran comforted her. This had thrown her. She had looked forward to seeing Arya.

 

It was a relief to pass along the messages she had for him from Rickon and to tell Bran of his youngest brother. She used that time to prepare herself for the questions that had expected to ask upon her arrival. Those that been worrying at her for moons, despite the King’s oblique platitudes in his letters.

 

Bran seemed to tell that she had a deeper concern in mind, and let her pause for, before gathering her wits to ask after months worth of worry.

 

“Bran, what of the South?”

 

He tilted his head, enquiringly.

 

“The Targaryens and the letter about Jon. First we denied them one of the Kingdoms, and then someone claims that Jon, whom everyone knows as a Stark irrespective of this letter, is the true King. “ She had tried not to think on this, as there were worries enough already, but as the implications of the letter settled into her soul and the Targaryens achieved success after success to the South the fear had metastasized. It was if the North was mirror, and it reflected inverse, existential threats to its poles.

 

These were not issues that could be written of in Ravens, lest the news go free. And so long as there was no need for warnings to expect Southron forces, she understood she wouldn’t know what occurred, and the depth of the threat. Besides, it wasn’t as if one could prepare for dragons. When Uncle Brynden hadn’t known, she had forced herself to put her concerns aside. But now, she looked the fear head on.

 

“They agreed to the trade for dragonglass,” she noted. “Given their actions against the Westerlands’ forces they seem focused on the South to start, but what do they make of us?” She breathed deeply, “Are we merely the next target?”

 

Bran began, “The negotiations had been going fairly well, up until this point. Lord Wyman and Lady Maege were at Dragonstone. They emphasized that all of Westeros is threatened by the White Walkers and their armies of wights. They established the North’s position – we will not discuss the status of the North until such time as the threat is defeated, but that we would support the Targaryens against the Lannisters. They traded for dragonglass and negotiations led to the departure of the Tully forces North.”

 

“And the Queen, she simply accepted the allegations of the threat and an independent North?”

 

“The Queen sat upon her throne in the great hall. She was joined by her advisors – men from the East, Ser Barristan the Bold, but most importantly in this case, a knight, Ser Jorah Mormont.”

 

“Mormont?”

 

“Lady Maege’s nephew.”

 

“Who Father…”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Lady Maege started when she saw him. She was silent, through the bread and salt and opening words. They had barely finished the courtesies and Lord Wyman was still complimenting the Queen’s success, when Lady Maege interrupted, face white, and told him baldly, with a White Walker’s hand shoved forward as a cruel imitation of gift for the new Queen, that the stories of the monsters beyond the Wall are real. She looked upon him and told him how his father, her brother was dead. She said he was struck down by a body long deceased, but given furious powers by the White Walkers. She emphasized that Jeor Mormont gave his life not for a King or a Lord, but that all might survive the coming war. She swore, on her children, on Bear Island, and the Old Gods, that she spoke true.”

 

She shuddered.

 

“The men from the East began to cast aspersions on her tale and Lord Wyman pointed to the sky. Dragons, he said, dragons have returned to Dragonstone. It is a time of magic, he told the Queen, and magic extracts its cost from mortal men. Winter has come, he said, and none know how to fight winter like the North. Ally with us, he implored. Ally with us against the greatest enemy of all – death itself, he told her. Ally with us, and postpone questions of Six Kingdoms or Seven, he said. Lady Maege looked to her nephew, and then the Queen, and told her, ally with us or death will defeat us all. Khaleesi, Ser Jorah said. That’s all. He called to her and nodded, and that was it. The rest of the discussions were simply about the degree of support, and a postponement of the “Northern issue.””

 

“They believe us?”

 

“Aye. Negotiations were fast, and almost complete when the letter arrived.”

 

“And,” she asked, almost breathless.

 

“The entire Northern delegation immediately tripped over themselves to note that no one knew whether the letter was true. Lord Wyman noted that rumor had always held that Jon was in fact Father’s bastard with Lady Ashara Dayne, and he surely had the Stark look. Lady Maege emphasized that Jon has given up any claim to the throne. The Queen sat silently, listening to reminders of the greater threat, of oaths, and of Jon’s character.  Even if its true, they told her, this isn't the Northern way.  The North doesn't care about being part of the South, that's the whole point, they said, and Ser Jorah agreed.  The North doesn't benefit from such a letter, Lord Wyman told her, but it seeks to serve both of our common enemies.  It doesn’t matter, Lady Maege said.  Jon is of the North and Jon is Lord Commander, trained by her own brother, she claimed.   He will never leave the Wall, she said, adding that even after the Rebellion, Maester Aemon had stayed at his post, serving all the people of Westeros.”

 

Her heart was pounding. If dragons could simply burn Lord Tywin and his forces, if Torrhen Stark had knelt for a reason, what would befall them?

 

“This woman, a queen and a so-called Mother of Dragons, but also tiny and even younger than Robb, she simply raised her hand for silence. They stood there ten, then twenty minutes. Then she said, I should like to meet my nephew.”

 

“And…”

 

“And that was it. They had already agreed to dragonglass – which is of use to none but us – and we offered intelligence on the Lannisters and the removal of the Riverlands from the coming conflict. She was not pleased by our refusal to bend a knee immediately, but our acknowledgment of her right to the other Kingdoms and the postponement of the issue sufficed. She said she would establish her control over the South, and then fly to the Wall…and Jon.”

 


	23. Sansa

She lay in bed, sleep elusive despite her exhaustion from travel. It might be ok. They might have nothing to fear from the dragons.

She wished she could sleep, but almost as soon as she returned to her quarters, a headache had set in. It was slowly tightening across her temples like a vice. She lay in the darkness, frustrated by the pain, but at least she was warm beneath the furs and thankful for the fine feather mattress.

 

She ran Bran’s words over and over across her mind. In the small hours it occurred to her – how did he know such detail? Lady Maege didn’t seem the type for such careful recollection. Had Lord Wyman penned the King a tome to be carried back by the Lady?

 

He’d told her of Dragonstone like he had been there.

 

As some point, exhausted interfered, but when the morning dawned, she awakened from her fitful slumber and headed to Bran’s quarters. He was there and welcomed her in inside. Summer looked at her questioningly.

 

“Bran, how did you know? How did you know so much about Dragonstone, and what happened?” She questioned, standing before him.

 

He flinched and didn’t answer. Her tongue ran away from her.

 

“I was so worried about what the Targaryen Queen thought, I was just so happy to have the answer. But it was like you had seen it all.”

 

He breathed in deep.

 

“Sometimes, sometimes I have dreams. Dreams of things outside my body – seeing things, being things I couldn’t.”

 

She was taken aback by his words, like something out of Old Nan’s stories – a greenseer. She looked around the room for purchase and caught sight of the direwolf before her.

 

“Sometimes you’re Summer.” She declared, certain.

 

“Yes. Did you…”

 

“Sometimes, it seemed Shaggy was just an extension of Rickon, when he was tired, or nervous, or distracted. It was like one mind and two bodies for a few moments.”

 

She walked toward him, and gripped his hand where it rested on his chair’s wheels.

 

“And you saw all of Dragonstone?”

 

“I did, among other things. I prefer the images of the South, to those North of the Wall.” He shuddered.

 

“How long – have you been seeing them?”

 

“Since I fell.”

 

She sucked in a deep breath. She remembered Bran, so small and pale in his bed, at the beginning of when everything became awful. She hadn’t known, then, how terrible things could be.

 

She crouched, so that they were eye to eye.

 

“You must have been so frightened. To have to deal with that. At such a young age. And even now, I’m sorry the Gods have seen fit to give you such visions. It must be terrible to see such things.”

 

“Yes. Breakfast?” he asked, ending her questioning. He pushed the hand she was covering forward, forcing her to jump out of the way of the oncoming chair and follow him.

 

*

She found her in the Queen’s solar.

 

“Beth?” Her childhood friend had filled out, suddenly a young woman with curves that had been absent when she was last at Winterfell.

 

Beth spun around, and seeing her, happily shouted, “Sansa!”

 

They greeted one another and exchanged pleasantries, before settling in before the fire to catch up on their lives.

 

“Its so nice to have you back! The Queen and her ladies from the Karhold are fine and all, but now that the Queen is confined to bed, and father is with the King at the front, its been naught but work. I’m glad you’re no longer down in Moat Cailin. But I heard from Princess Arya that you went to White Harbor as well! What was that like?”

 

She told an enraptured Beth of the festival. Her reactions were almost as fun as being there.

 

“I should love to travel in the North some day.”

 

“Perhaps, wait til spring,” she suggested with a smile.

 

“I suppose. Now, you’re not just here for pleasure. Fergus mentioned you’d be coming to help with the running of the keep. I’ve tried to help a bit as you traveled.”

 

“Thank you Beth. So, how is she?”

 

“As Lady of the keep?” She nodded. Winterfell looked fine, and neither Arya nor Bran had made any complaint, but she needed to be sure. She’d left extensive instructions.

 

“Well enough, I suppose. They do teach their ladies well at the Karhold. And she’s quite well liked as Queen. Though the way she organizes and plans the distribution of candles is simply bizarre.”

 

She allowed herself a small smile, and set in on detailed questions about all manner of the keep.

 

*

 

Arya had complained about the Reeds in her letters. She had thought it just jealousy that someone else might be occupying Bran when Arya had hoped to have her brother to herself. But, on reflection and after meeting the pair, Arya may have had a point.

 

She’d not even been home a week and it seemed every question she levied at Bran only made his frustration toward her grow. His mouth would pinch and he would offer an answer that was even and polite, but with an undercurrent of a barb, and she did not know why.

 

She only asked simple questions: What will you do today? How do you think the King, Jon, and Arya are faring? Have you had more dreams?

 

And she couldn’t address whatever offense she had caused because he always seemed to be with the Reeds.

 

But now, she could see Lord Jojen and Lady Meera in conversation, with no Bran in sight. She approached, enquiring if they knew where she could find her brother. Lord Jojen stared at her in the most peculiar manner, like he could read into her soul, while Lady Meera directed him to the Godswood.

 

Summer met her on her journey out to the weir wood tree. She told the direwolf that she needed to speak with Bran, just in case.

 

Upon arriving, she opened the conversation. “I’ve upset you.”

 

“No, its fine.”

 

“No, its not. You answer my questions like I did in the Red Keep: answers perfectly correct on their face. Please Bran. Its just us. We can’t fight amongst ourselves.”

 

She dropped down beside him, leaning against the heart tree.

 

“Please,” she entreated.

 

“You keep treating me like a child. I’m not Sansa, for all they all treat me that way.” Bran declared, emphatically.

 

She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

 

She sat in silence, while the accusation settled between them.

 

“I keep leaving, and when I return you are so much more grown, but I missed it all. I remember the day you were born, and now here you are.”

 

Summer slipped between them, head turned to watch her, pensive.

 

“Besides,” she added with a thoroughly unladylike snort, “Repeated questions were rather an important tool in ensuring Rickon didn’t simply run wild in the woods, unschooled and unprepared. I suppose I rather forgot to break the habit.”

 

A slight smile escaped Bran, “I can imagine.”

 

“I didn’t mean to suggest I see you as a child. I’m sorry I did.”

 

“Its not just your questions. Its what you said – about the dreams.”

 

“What? That you must be scared? That you were young when they started? You were young, we all were such children. And fear, well, Bran, I’m terrified all the time: of Joffrey – even now he’s gone, of being alone, of the future, of the Others, and now the dragons.”

 

“No, it was like you thought I couldn’t bear them. Because you think I’m weak like the rest of them. I’m not useless, I can handle the visions.”

 

“No, no. I didn’t mean that. It’s amazing what one can grow accustomed to bearing. Only that – I know how scared, or sad, or unsure I feel, and that is without images to illustrate my fears. I just wish I could make it easier.”

 

She could see her breath sculpting shapes before her. They all seemed insufficient.

 

“I don’t think you’re useless.” She added.

 

“Everyone else does. I can’t fight, and what use is a man who can’t protect his home in a time of war. I sit beside them, when they stand arguing about tactics or plans, and they look right over my head. I have no place among them.”

 

“Oh, Bran.” She breathed out.

 

“And I know,” he barreled along, “I know better then they what will befall us if we lose. I see it in my sleep, or when my eyes close: the North devoid of life, the walls of Winterfell cleaved apart, the whole land sheathed in a layer of ice.

 

“But it doesn’t matter. They have little use for the wisdom I’ve tried to acquire from books. Robb, at least, would listen to what I dreamed, but he’s gone North. He wouldn’t let me go, and now they serve no use. Like me.”

 

She leaned over to hug him tight, but he shied away. Instead she petted the direwolf beside her, who was willing to accept her ministrations.

 

“I know, I know, I know Bran,” she soothed. “Its not fair, none of it is.”

 

Summer let loose a low growl of agreement.

 

“It isn’t, but all you can do is try your best to make a new way of being.”

 

Bran raised one sardonic eyebrow.

 

“Sansa, Walder carried me out here. I’m quite used to trying new approaches.”

 

“Have you written His Grace with any actionable dreams?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Then you are making a difference. You don’t know that your letters are not influencing his plans. Even if he doesn’t act on them consciously, you set the ideas in his mind. That’s a vitally important role, one that is difficult and necessary. One no one else can fill. Its just not what you thought you would do.”

 

He sighed and looked ready to argue. She headed off his words.

 

“I didn’t think, when I was a girl, that I would spend my time raising Rickon, building a fort, and trying to orchestrate Arya’s betrothal, but there you go. And even if the dreams mean nothing, you aren’t useless. You matter to me. I’m selfishly glad to have you here, away from the battlefield. I missed you. Moat Cailin could be lonely. But we have each other here. Well, we would, if you would deign to actually talk to me.”

 

“Sansa,” he groaned.

 

“Would it help, to share what you see?”

 

“I don’t want to frighten you.”

 

She looked him in the eyes, “I can be brave. Tell me, what do you see.”


	24. Sansa

While Queen Alys had plenty of company from the pair ladies from the Karhold, her Grace seemed so excited to see her every time she went to see her. As she settled back into the new rhythms of a home at war and winter, she tried, no matter the demands on her time, to sit with the Queen everyday.

It must be terribly lonely to be confined to bed, even for such a blessed reason. She remembered long days in King's Landing with nothing to fill them but fear.

They couldn't discuss anything that would upset the Queen, of course. Therefore, they held light conversations day after day and it was as if, tucked within the walls of this room, that there were no threats facing them from all sides. Instead, they saw to their sewing and traded stories from their youths. As Queen Alys told it, the Karhold seemed a familiar place. She could transpose some of the Queen's tales on her own childhood: days spent playing with the other local girls, playacting at being Queen, an irony not lost on them. She liked to imagine, just for a moment, that she had lived the more recent memories related to her – life as a recently flowered maid, safe in her ancestral home, and eager for what lay before her. But that was foolish, and besides, though Queen Alys had three brothers, her stories lacked a role for a sister. In return, the Queen seemed to delight in tales of her husband, back when he was but a boy.

She was putting the finishing stitches on her embroidery of Summer and telling about the time His Grace crowned her the Queen of Love and Beauty after they held a mock tourney when the Queen declared, "Oh."

She stood, alarmed, but the wide smile on the Queen's face quickly dispelled her fear.

"Your Grace?"

The Queen grabbed her hand and placed it atop her rapidly swelling belly.

"They moved!"

"They?"

The Queen's cheeks pinked, and she said, a bit bashful, "Maester Luwin believes the babe may be twins, as I have grown quite fast." 

She gazed down at her stomach below her and added, a touch quieter, "But he said not to tell anyone. It is harder...with twins." The Queen breathed deeply, before excitedly exclaiming, "Wait, there again. Like a flutter? Do you feel it?"

She felt the weave of the cloth beneath her hands, the Queen's firm stomach, and its motion as the Queen breathed, but nothing that could be the child – children – below. She gazed at the Queen's expectant smile she nodded, swearing, "I won't tell."

"Are you excited to be an aunt?"

"Very much so." She patted the Queen's stomach before her, bidding the babes hello.

*

For all the threats, life felt perversely better than when she had first returned to Winterfell. 

Much of it was her. She no longer felt like an open wound, where each glance, each word not quite courteous enough, each denigrating joke sent a rush of pain through her. Sometimes, she knew, when your skin is so inflamed, the mere gust of wind brought on the ache just like a mailed fist.

She was also an old story in a place where there were much greater fears and potential affronts to occupy everyone's mind than her mere presence. What was one girl and the history she represented to death from the north and dragons to the south? Cruel japes aimed at her were, clearly, passé.

But it appeared, as was often the case, that some dimwitted fool failed to recognize the custom had changed.

She didn't hear the whole of it, just his invocation of her name and obscene gestures, but it was enough. She approached the man and his companion, hair flapping in the breeze, where they idled beside a cart.

"Tell me," she asked, offering no greeting to soften her words, "what is the season?"

"Winter, Princess," the companion answered, on the jester's behalf.

"And was the sun high in the sky when you woke to begin your labors today?" She asked, ignoring the companion.

The man's hands, relaxed from their mocking form, had balled into fists at his side. He answered monosyllabically.

"Perhaps, given the little daylight the Gods see fit to grant us in the winter, you might not fritter it away standing still, chattering, but will put your hands for more beneficial pursuits?"

"Yes, Princess."

"Good. If it seems you fail to grasp the responsibilities winter places upon us all, surely a place can be found for you that truly illuminates the threat of the season."

She turned and refused to look back at the man's response. She smiled at the sound of the thump of an open palm hitting a solid surface and the ensuing yelp of surprise.

"Yer an idiot." She heard, as she walked away.

 

*

 

"I had a letter from White Harbor,” she told Bran as they departed the Great Hall after supper.

“Oh?” Bran looked up interested. “And, how are they?”

Lady Wynafryd seems invigorated, she thought. Her letter tripped from paragraph to paragraph. She’d wanted a babe and now she was the mother in absentia to scores of children.

“Well.” She looked about conspiratorially, before bending deep to tell him with a grin, “It would seem young Rickon has an admirer.”

“What?”

“Maege Mormont’s youngest. Lady Wynafryd reports she is given to needling at Rickon endlessly to gain his attention. He, in turn, seems to try and impress her in the training yard, to little affect.”

“Oh. Well that’s good.” Bran kept moving forward, seemingly no where near as amused as she.

“There’s a note from Rickon as well. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.” She offered, inclining her head at his thanks. 

She related a bit more from the note Lady Wynafryd sent, until they met Walder at the foot of the stairs. Even in his large arms, Bran was starting to look a bit ridiculous. She and her brother shared the same long legs, she thought as she followed behind, watching them sway with Walder’s steps. 

Once set in the solar, she continued. “Lady Wynafryd speaks well of Lady Lyanna. She might be a good match for Rickon.”

“Isn’t he a bit young?” Bran responded.

“There’s no need for anything formal yet, but it is not too early to consider. A betrothal should wait until he’s more your age. And until after the war, and the realities such a time may bring.”

Bran nodded his agreement, but offered no thoughts.

“Should we also be considering a match for you?” She ventured. 

He froze.

“It matters little,” Bran offered, with studied nonchalance.

She paused.

“Perhaps. But it might be nice, to have a companion?” Loneliness ate at person.

“Whom would I marry?” Bran’s voice carried a hint of derision.

“You are a Prince, a man of House Stark, and for now, the King’s heir. Many a maid would gladly say her vows beside you and a heart tree,” she responded, arch in tone.

“So that they might be a Princess. I will do it if Robb asks, but it’s hardly the base for a loving ‘companionship.’”

“What of Lady Meera?” Bran’s eyes went wide. “I see the way you look at her.” 

His ears matched her hair.

“I see the way she looks at you.”

He blanched.

“I…I…wouldn’t ask that of her. I care for her too much to saddle her with a childless, celibate marriage.”

“And who are you to make that decision for her?”

“What?”

“You clearly care for her, and she you. Do you not respect her enough to offer her the choice?”

“Sansa.” He looked pained by her words. “Really, its fine. Let’s put this subject to bed.”

She thought of Lady Wylla and her own nights alone. “It’s rarely spoken of, for it usually matters not, but not all ladies want for children. It’s a lady’s duty, but not every lady’s wish.” She reached out for his hand, and continued, “Be brave. Speak with Lady Meera. It shall be hard. She might decline your offer. I hope you wouldn’t hold that against her, or yourself.”

“The want of a babe…it can be powerful.” She allowed. “But honor her, and yourself, in asking after her mind, and not taking the choice from her.”

Bran agreed to consider her advice with a tight voice that lead her to prattle on unimportant topics for the remainder of the evening.

*

"Sansa!"

She felt a jolt of terror when the sound of a voice above her wakened her from her slumber.

"Sansa!"

The room was still dark, though it usually was when she rose not that it was winter. But none of the maids would speak so informally.

Her fear ebbed as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw it was just Bran, accompanied by Summer. But, as sleep faded and Bran's presence and countenance grew on her, it returned as a wave.

"Bran, what?"

"Sansa, King's Landing, I saw it. The dragons have taken King's Landing."


	25. Bran, Sansa

“Did they burn?” Sansa’s eyes were wide in her face. And so blue. But nothing like the blue eyes that terrified him in his dreams. “The city did it burn?”

 

“No,” he confirmed. It would have. It should have? But it did not.

 

“The city fell quickly, with little bloodshed. As the dragons approached, Lord Tyrion implored the Queen Regent and King that they must surrender. He told them that the fire from the dragons, and wildfire below the city, would destroy everything. That it would kill them all.”

 

Sansa’s breath was harsh beside him. “They wouldn’t care.”

 

“No, Cersei and Joffrey did not. But Ser Jaime…it...pushed him.” It pushed something inside the Kingslayer. Push. Push. Push.

 

But this wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t. There was no Ser Jaime pushing here. Or was it being pushed? Just Summer to his left, and Sansa, in her bed before him.

 

“He and his brother spoke, briefly. They agreed the city must not burn. That they must save Tommen and Myrcella. Lord Tyrion rode out, first under the cover of night, and then beneath a white banner to negotiate terms. Ser Jaime took his sword to his son, and his sister, adding Kinslayer to Kingslayer. He then ended himself.”

 

Sansa gasped.

 

It happened so suddenly – a sword to the abdomen, not head, like Joffrey, nor the heart, like Cersei.

 

“Lord Tyrion ordered the city to stand-down. In the shadow of dragons few saw fit to fight him.”

 

“Her armies subdued the city without fire. Relatively few were killed.   The Master of Coin was – by the Master of Whispers.” He’d stood on a ladder and shoved a dagger in his back. The hilt looked unnatural in his soft hands, but his aim was practiced.

 

Each word seemed to drain him. His eyes felt heavy. His head lolled and jerked.

 

He heard Sansa ask, “Bran, Bran?”

 

A moment later he was prone, and buried in furs.

 

“Sansa?”

 

He was in her quarters, and bed.

 

“You fell asleep,” she answered from the desk in the corner. “Are you feeling better now?”

 

He sat up straighter. “Aye.”

 

The world seemed clear now. It had all felt so blurred, before. Like he wasn’t fully here.

 

“Good.” She placed her had against his forehead and smiled. “I don’t want to distress you.”

 

“I’m fine, Sansa.”

 

She met his eyes firmly, and seemingly believing what she saw, gave a solid nod.

 

“What do you think?” She asked, handing him a piece of parchment covered with a matter of fact recitation of what occurred in King’s Landing.   It was surely more sensible than what he told her last night. Or was it this morning?

 

“The letter’s unfinished.”

 

“It is. You helped the King with the letters South?” She asked.

 

“I was present. I read the drafts. I wouldn’t say I contributed much.”

 

Help Robb by becoming an advisor, they had all said. But what use did a wartime King have for a man who had never fought?

 

But, but, but, his mind interjected, you’ve seen more battlefields than any man alive.

 

“With the matter of the South mostly settled – without the Westerlands and control of the capitol the resistance will fold – it seems time we try for further support against the Others. I thought, what with all King Robb has to worry about, and the paucity of ravens, that we would offer to draft the communications to the major, and minor Houses.” She bit her lip, then added, “The King will have to respond to Queen Daenerys himself, of course.”

 

“But you intend that we’ll write the rest?”

 

“We will, by your hand, providing the King consents.”

 

“It will be up to us to convince them. Sansa, we need them.” The dreams of King’s Landing had been pleasant diversion from the usual images that crowded his nights.

 

“I know.” Her eyes were wide. She hadn’t seen, but he’d told her. She pasted a smile on, and added, “We are the perfect team, of course. Your studies plus my time in court. No one else could marshal that.”

 

*

 

“He’s adorable,” she offered the woman, tending to a young boy, as she inspected Wintertown. “Is he your son?”

 

Robb had agreed to their plan in his last letter. The official missive from King’s Landing had arrived, and they had sent it north to him. The letter elaborately feted this dragon Queen, but hidden in the baroque language was important information: the city was again the seat of the Targaryen Kingdom; the “usurper king” was dead; the “queen’s bastards” were to be stripped of their name and sent to the Faith and the Citadel; and, most importantly, the Queen would direct some of her forces North.

 

She was glad to hear that Queen Danaerys hadn’t simply slaughtered Tommen and Myrcella. They were just children, and innocent of their family’s treachery. Tommen might even like being a Maester. So many animals to care for.

 

And, the Queen’s refusal to repeat the actions of a generation before – the slaughter of the remnants of the prior regime – spoke well of her.

 

But the Queen’s grace might not matter. She and Bran had sent a letter north and King Robb sent women and children, noble, smallfolk, and wildling alike south.

 

They’d be safer away from the fighting. Less likely to be killed and recruited into an army that could make even the smallest among them a weapon.

 

But how was she supposed to house and feed the burgeoning population of Winterfell?

 

The woman offered a smile. “His name is Little Sam.”

 

“A good name. It’s strong. Like he looks to be.” She told the woman.

 

He was just beyond the toddler stage, where a babe stretched and grew from this otherworldly being, to a very small person. He wasn’t particularly clean, but neither was his mother. However, his looked well cared for, smiled at her with bright eyes, and showed her the whittled horse grasped in his little fingers.

 

She offered him a big smile back.

 

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t.

 

“You both are new to Wintertown?”

 

“Aye, we came South from where we’d been living at Last Hearth with all the others.”

 

“And before?”

 

“We were, um, North-er?”

 

“And how do you find the North?”

 

“Good, good. Not at all what I was told as a child. Not surprising, that.”

 

She wondered, for a moment, if wildling children were told frightening stories of those south of the wall.

 

“I’m glad it’s been welcoming. How was the journey?”

 

“Hard, but I’ve had worse. It was cold and there wasn’t enough food. But Wintertown is wonderful! It’s so big. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many people!” When the woman smiled it transformed her face – likely they were roughly of age.

 

“We are quite full right now. The city is not often like this. I always wished to live in a larger city as a girl, but now, I would take an lonely Wintertown were the North not beset by such terrors.”

 

“Wouldn’t we all.”

 

“I fear, sometimes,” she began, before cutting herself off. This conversation had become highly improper, and dangerous to the peace in this crowded city.

 

“About the Others?” The woman surmised. She nodded, rather than compound her error. “You’d be foolish not to. We all would.”

 

The woman looked to her son, who was pretending his little horse was cantering up a snow pile near the side of the road.

 

“You know, I didn’t think Little Sam would live a moon, and look at him now. Sometimes it works out.”

 

She smiled back at the thought.

 

“Indeed.” A deep breath, and she continued, “I’ve met young Sam, but whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?’

 

“Oh, I’m Gilly.”

 

“Kindly met, my name is Sansa Stark.” She was not surprised when her name elicited a start of recognition, but the woman’s ensuing statement curdled her stomach and made her smile grow brittle.

 

“Oh,” Gilly said, “Sansa, of course! I might have guessed from your hair.” She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what things wildlings said of her. Not that this woman, who clearly had a bastard of her own, had much grounds to impugn her honor.

 

But then Gilly dove into her rucksack, and pulled out a grimy piece of parchment.

 

“You have a sister, named Arya?”

 

“I do.”

 

“I met her, when the Night’s Watch visited the front and the camps near Last Hearth. She passed through shortly before we departed, and asked I find you or your brother at Winterfell.”

 

She shoved the parchment forward, and it was clearly a letter addressed in Arya’s hand to herself and Bran.

 

She met Gilly’s eyes.

 

“You saw Arya? How did she look?”

 

“Well. She seemed nice when we were introduced, and interested in what life was like north of the Wall. She sought me out to carry the letter. She said she didn’t want to take a raven, they were in too short a supply. But she spent most of the time with the armies – or the spearwives.”

 

A laugh escaped her. “Of course she found the wildling women who fight.”

 

Gilly looked a bit abashed. “I was never much of a warrior.”

 

She gestured at her dress. “Nor I.”

 

They stood in silence for a moment, before Gilly offered, “Its nice, that you’re so close to your sister. It took some work, for her to find me to carry the letter.”

 

“It is. I’m lucky.”

 

She looked forward to reading whatever Arya had included in her missive. Arya had been an inconsistent correspondent when she had lived at Moat Cailin. She’d expected, after learning of Arya’s travel North, to never hear from her directly until the war was done. But, this was her second letter in as many moons. And she seemed happy, despite the conditions. The letters wouldn’t carry any immediate news – that King Robb would have sent by raven – but she missed Arya, and if this letter was like the last, it would brim with gleeful stories that would have made her childish self, Mother, and Septa Mordane shudder.

 

“Thank you,” she told Gilly. “I worry, and word from Arya calms it.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“So, Gilly, as you are new to Wintertown, I suspect you have not yet found a place?”

 

“They’ve set up camps, for the recent arrivals,” Gilly began to explain.

 

“I know,” she interjected. “If you are not a warrior woman, what is your trade?”

 

“I kept the rabbits, as a girl.”

 

“So you might do well in the kitchens?” Gilly nodded, eager. “Go tomorrow. Tell them I sent you. See if you might find a place.”

 

*

 

Bran joined her in the solar. Two new ravens had arrived today.

 

One came from the Vale. She quickly skimmed it, and handed it to Bran.

 

Yohn Royce, a name she recognized from youth, began by offering his condolences. Her Lady Aunt had perished at the Eyrie, shortly after her husband had been killed when the Targaryens took King’s Landing. He was serving as her cousin’s regent.

 

The Vale, he wrote, had not been in a position to come to King Robb’s aid as he fought the Lannisters, or to respond to the King’s earlier entreaties, though it had grieved them so, but, in this missive addressed to Prince Bran, he noted that the Vale was a long time friend of the North and now bound by blood. That to this day they mourned the loss of Lord Eddard. And, he wrote, Knights of the Vale would sail from Gulltown to Eastwatch and man the Western front.

 

“We did it,” Bran said, hope and shock mixing in his breathy words.

 

“We did it again,” she corrected, and reached across to squeeze his left hand. As she returned her hand to her lap, her fingers ghosted over an older letter that had been set out on the desk, centered in pride of place. Its green wax rose had caused her heart to tighten, when it arrived a week prior.

 

In a short letter, Lord Tyrell had told Prince Bran that the North could expect reinforcements from the Reach. They would sail out from Old Town to Deepwood Motte, and ride out to the Eastern Front.

 

He wished peace and health on Prince Bran’s family.

 

The other letter bore a sigil, stamped into blood red wax, which portended their next arrival. She hardly needed to see the words to know what they would say.

 

“She comes. Queen Danaerys flies North with her dragons, and will reach us soon.”


	26. Sansa

She’d rather expected more advance warning. In retrospect, standing in the courtyard beside Bran, that seemed foolish. Surely dragons are faster than ravens or men on horseback. The sudden alert from the guards that dragons were on the horizon filled her with a jolt of fear. From the highest tower she could just make out see the trio of dragons in the dusk light  The three would be too large to fit comfortably in the yard. She directed the entire welcoming party outside the gates, and stood, with the walls behind her and a hand gripping Bran’s chair.

 

“I don’t need you to hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere,” he grouched.

 

“It is not for your benefit, but my own,” she admitted. It would hardly do to quake with fear as they welcomed the visiting Queen. “Is it all right?”

 

“Yes,” he said with a touch of a smile. Summer stood and walked by, pressing up against her leg as if a show of support, before taking a sentinel position before them both.

 

A gust of wind from the dragon’s wings mussed the hair hanging down her back, as she usually wore it now. She hurriedly set it to rights while a small figure climbed down from the largest dragon.

 

“I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First men, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Mereen, Lord of the Six Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm,” the woman declared.

 

She dropped into a light curtsey – enough to acknowledge the litany just presented, but not so low as to suggest subservience.

 

She looked to Bran as she rose. As King Robb’s heir, he should welcome the queen. But his bravado from moments before had fled, and he seemed transfixed by the white dragon.

 

“Welcome Your Grace. I am Sansa of House Stark, Princess of Winterfell. This is Brandon of House Stark, Prince of Winterfell. Let us offer you bread and salt.”

 

She bumped Bran’s chair to jostle him out of his reverie.

 

Once the necessary welcome was through, she said, “Queen Alys is with child and under Maester instructions to remain confined to bed. She welcomes you, and invites you to her chambers. She asks you not take offense at the more informal nature of such a greeting.”

 

“None taken. It is an important task to welcome the next generation into the world. But first I must see to my dragons.”

 

“Do your dragons require any sustenance after their long flight?” She asked, marveling for a moment at the banal statement, as if she were enquiring after hay for horses.

 

“Chickens would not go amiss.”

 

She cringed internally, at the idea of the loss of eggs, before asking, “Bran, would you go and request the dragon feed?”

 

He assented – quiet and seeming a bit dazed – before rolling away. The Queen stalked back to the beasts, undoing leather straps on the white dragon. The Targaryen, unafraid of giant creatures set the heavy bags on the ground, and imperiously declared, “These bags must be treated with great care, guarded, stored outside Winterfell and the nearby town, and away from all flame.”

 

Her heart stopped at such words. They communicated instructions for only one substance she knew. It couldn’t be.   But she quickly flagged down Ser Rodrick, and tasked him, with strict, quiet words to do just that.

 

She made light conversation as they worked their way through the yard and into the keep. Winterfell was bustling, as was common now, with small folk and free folk everywhere. She hoped none would give offense. It wouldn’t do to have one of the free folk to offer a discourse on kneeling, or lack thereof, at this particular moment.

 

No disastrous political insult occurred, and they reached Queen Alys. Her stomach looked liked an upsiddown bowl was hiding beneath the sheets, though her ladies had set the Queen’s hair in a braid resembling a crown. Formal greetings were again exchanged, and she was dismissed, as queen met queen.

 

She waited in the hallway, back against the walls, soaking in their warmth. She breathed very deliberately.

 

Once centered, she tasked a maid to ensure supper was ready when the queens completed their discussion, and asked a passing Beth Cassel to find her father and enquire after the status of the Queen’s instructions. She wasn’t sure the time that elapsed, but it must have been at least an hour before the door opened and the diminutive queen met her.

 

“Queen Daenerys. You must be hungry after your travels. The letter we received on your behalf indicated you would stay only one night and wished to forgo a formal welcoming feast. In light of that, we have prepared quarters where you might also eat, if you would like to retire now. Otherwise, we would be happy to welcome you in the Great Hall.”

 

“Dinner in the quarters would be most appreciated, Princess Sansa. Would you join me?”

 

“It would be my honor.”

 

She led the dragon Queen to the most elegant guest quarters they could establish in wartime, narrating the history of the keep along the way.

 

Once in the rooms, the Queen sat at the table and gestured for her to do the same.

 

“You must see that my instructions are followed to the letter with respect to my gift.”

 

“It is wildfire, your Grace.” It should have been a question, she realized after the fact, but she had not posed it as such.

 

“Indeed.” The Queen raised one white blond eyebrow in response.

 

“You carried it on your dragons this entire way?”

 

The Queen looked a bit perturbed with the questioning. She needed to bring her terror at the idea under control. “Fire,” the Queen said, “does not burn a dragon.”

 

“Thank you, for your gift. That is surely true, but nonetheless, I acknowledge and thank you for the risk you undertook.”

 

That seemed to pacify the early annoyance, and thankfully the food arrived at that moment. It was a finer meal than Winterfell would typically offer now, though nothing compared to what she had seen in the Red Keep, or even her childhood. It was three courses, and even included wine. When they were left alone again, she tried to begin again, “Congratulations on your efforts in the South. I know all the Starks are thankful to see Joffrey Waters off the throne.”

 

“Yes, Queen Alys indicated as much. He killed your father.”

 

“Among his many crimes, yes.”

 

“He was dead when I arrived.” She blinked the statement. He was horrible. Terrible. But killed by one’s father was such a horrible way to die.

 

She didn’t want to think on King’s Landing.

 

“We are all appreciative of your swift successes, and your willingness to turn North to battle the Others. I’m sure, coming from so a distant a place, it seems unreal. But, I assure you the threat is true, and more pressing than any facing the continent in thousands of years. I know the King, and all at the Wall, will welcome your efforts.”

 

The Queen did not accept the courtesies in the manner in which they were intended, but instead asked, “Tell me, Princess Sansa, if I am willing to fight for all of Westeros, and am the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, why I should be denied the North’s fealty?”

 

“Queen Danareys, I am really not in a position to speak for the North. I am not the King, his Queen, his heir, or his designated representative.” She tried to demure.

 

“Yet you are the one here. If you, a Princess of Winterfell, cannot articulate why the North is deserving of its freedom, does that not illustrate the tenuousness of your claims?” The Queen’s violet eyes bore into her own, and then the monarch continued eating, if she had not flown in on dragons that had so quickly defeated Lord Tywin and threated the North by extension.

 

“It is not my role, but let me offer you what is my humble perspective.”

 

The Queen, spoon in hand, waved her forward.

 

“Choice. The North ought to be independent because its people chose King Robb and further Stark rule. They have thousands of years history with my family, and the North considered, and consented, to further rule.”

 

“Did not the North consent to Targaryen rule, and then betray their fealty?”

 

Her whole body flashed hot, as if possessed by the Targaryen words – fire and blood.

 

She began, “Such a charge assumes that consent, once given, is absolute. There are many rights, generally inviolable, that when significantly transgressed, are removed. I know one of your advisors, Ser Jorah, was the Lord of House Mormont. That is generally a position terminable only through death or other vows. But, when he was discovered to have sold men into slavery, an act the North – and you – will not abide, he was divested of his position. You, yourself could be seen as having interfered with the consent given by the citizens of the cities in Slaver’s Bay, unless you think, as I do, that slavery is an act so objectionable, that it severs a prior agreement. The North would argue the King Aerys actions fall into the same category.”

 

“Even if I accept your argument that the Rebellion was understandable, why should I, rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, having established dominion over six, with the power, to conquer the last, settle for less than is my due?”

 

“Queen Daenerys, you have already distinguished yourself from the most recent occupants of the Iron Throne with your recognition of the threat facing everyone in Westeros, and your willingness to postpone discussions of Northern independence until after the threat is neutralized. I spent time in the Red Keep, and saw men and women there who would gladly watch the world burn if they could be promised a crown among the ashes. This foresight, coupled with your actions in the East, suggests to me that you are a thoughtful and wise ruler.”

 

She sipped at her wine. Queen Daenerys stayed silent to allow her to continue.

 

“You, therefore, will understand, that there is nothing so powerful as choice. The Unsullied, I am told, chose to serve you. The people of the North chose King Robb and Starks. The free folk chose to settle in our realm.   Allying with an independent North, a kingdom separate, but a friend, will offer you greater benefit, I believe, that forcing the North to kneel and be subsumed back into the South. In the three hundred years following the Conquest, the North was never well incorporated into the Seven Kingdoms. The North is unique – a wild, hard place full of loyal men and woman with customs and gods unlike those in the South. Let us learn from that history.” 

 

The Queen continued to observe her. What if her words condemned the North?

 

She continued, “Men and women will fight harder and love greater when it is their choice.”

 

Her words hung in the air. They hurt.

 

The Queen was still silent.

 

“Do not your Unsullied do greater deeds fighting freely for you than ever under the whip of the Masters?” she asked.

 

Had she gone too far? The Queen had practically demanded an explanation.

 

“Thank you, Princess Sansa, for your perspective. I would like to retires, so that I might fly out at first light.”

 

She stood, “Of course, you must be quite fatigued from your travels.”

 

“Would you and your brother break your fast with me?”

 

“It will be our pleasure. Shall we join you here?”

 

“I should like to see your Great Hall.”

 

“So we shall. A maid will be present to escort you before dawn.” She gave a slight curtsey, and bid, “Good night, Your Grace.”

 

She walked away at an even pace and was two thirds of the way to Queen Alys’ chambers before she sat upon the stair just to breathe. That was even more terrifying than the dragons or the wildfire.

 

When someone passed her with a questioning look, she knew it was time to move. Arriving at the Queen’s quarters, she asked the guard whether she had turned in yet, and was pleased to hear the answer was no.

 

“You Grace,” she greeted. “Queen Daenerys has turned in. I wanted to check on you. Are you well?”

 

“Yes. They’re keeping me awake this evening.” She swept her hand toward her belly, larger each day it seemed.

 

“If I might, how was your conversation with Queen Daenerys?”

 

“It was fine – simple really. We spoke of Robb, what he wanted for the North, and the children. She seemed courteous, if foreign.”

 

“Excellent.” She released the breath she had been holding slowly, and felt her shoulders fall.

 

“And yours?”

 

“She wished to know more of the North.”

 

“Good, good.” The Queen stared at her, then offered kindly. “Sansa, you ought to got to bed. You look exhausted.”

 

“I believe I shall. Thank you my Queen.” As had become their custom, she rested her hand on the Queen’s stomach for a moment. “Goodnight babies.”

 

*

 

She was dismayed to see that Queen Daenerys and Bran were already in the Great Hall when she arrived. She’d thought she would have been early enough.

 

Bran did not seem addled as he had been the day before, and was rather holding a discourse with the Queen. As she approached, it seemed Bran was discussing the integration of the wildlings – free folk – into the North. She could see several of them at the lower tables in the Great Hall, breaking their fast before the tasks of the day.

 

“You do this although they are your long time foe?” The Queen asked.

 

“We are united against a greater enemy. Besides, they are of the North also. It is only right to protect them as well.”

 

The Queen just nodded. Her plate was almost clear already.

 

“Good morning, Queen Daenerys.”

 

“Princess Sansa, I made an earlier start than expected.”

 

“I am glad Prince Bran was able to keep your company.”

 

“Yes, he was waiting for me this morning. But I must be off.”

 

“Thank you for honoring us with your presence. I’ve had the kitchens pack you a lunch and dinner for your travels.”

 

“Thank you. Would you see me off?”

 

“It would be my pleasure.”

 

The Queen gracefully rose, as a she took sight of this woman, blond hair pulled up into a multitude of braids and outfitted in fine wool pants and fur, the Queen appeared so out of place in the Great Hall.

 

Bran set down his cutlery, ready to accompany them, but the Queen bid him to stay. “I barely gave you time to eat with my questions.”

 

She assumed, that as they approached the dragons, the Queen would have more questions for her, but their conversation was light.

 

Shortly before the Queen was to climb aboard the black beast, she tamped down her fear, and offered thanks again for the gift.

 

The Queen smiled, and declared as she scaled her sigil, “It was nothing. Fire cannot burn the dragon,” she echoed.

 

“Travel safely," she implored.  Then, she offered a smile and said, “Enjoy your flight.  While, North in winter is a cruel mistress, she has a beauty like none other.”


	27. Sansa, Bran, Sansa, Arya

 

The mornings seemed to come earlier every day. Today was no exception, as she pulled herself from beneath her furs and began to prepare herself to emerge from her chambers. Perhaps it was simply that the descending darkness gave the impression that it should always be night, with men, women, and children cocooned in their beds.

 

Not that they had beds enough. As further armies sailed and marched North, a flood Northerners migrated south. Many ceased their journey at Winterfell, while others continued further - to hide in the bogs of the Neck and hope that the water stopped Others if their forces did not. She wondered if it was the greatest movement of people the North had ever seen?

 

She was so glad Rickon was hidden away in White Harbor, ready to be spirited to safety in Essos should the war require it.

 

She saw them arrive: parents with children on their back, lonely single men and woman, the aged all grasping at life at life with each mile walked.

 

It wasn't just the desire to save themselves from death - but also to deprive the Others new recruits.

 

She had thought they were full when Queen Danaerys had arrived a moon ago, yet seemingly the flood had only increased. The sept was housing mothers with babes. The hallways seemed to teem with unfamiliar faces. It made her long for Moat Cailin, where she had known everyman and woman in the keep. The requests and conflicts from the new visitors were so numerous, she barely saw Bran. So often her tasks bled into the early hours and he acted as a Prince during the day and a prophet at night. Even when they met for meals, or shortly after, their words were few, weighed down by the fatigue and anxiety that bound her chest.

 

She had - mortifyingly - fallen asleep in front of the Queen the week past. One moment she had been making conversation during one of her daily audiences. They were discussing the happy news in Uncle Edmure's most recent letter that Lady Margaery was with child, a new Tully who would be the babes' first cousin once removed. The next thing she knew, she was awakening in her traditional chair, a blanket across her lap, her embroidery set to the side with an unfinished fish staring at her accusingly, and Queen Alys entertaining herself with a book. Over an hour had passed and a maid must have seen to her in the interim. The Queen brushed off her flustered apologies and courteously enquired after her health. She had quickly made her excuses and departed. Sleeping before a Queen, how thoroughly improper.

 

But, even with all the new faces and tasks they brought, there was a monotony to the anxiety she never would have expected. At Winterfell, unlike the front she presumed, they didn't have the punctuated fear from battle, just grinding concerns about space, food, and wood. It felt, almost as if it had always been like this. It was only when seeing to the reopening of the sept to house the many babes at Winterfell - surely the Mother would approve - that it occurred to her how much life had changed, and she along with it.

 

The last time she had been in the sept had been so soon after her first return to Winterfell. She had felt so empty, and thought so often of Joffrey. He had still terrified her, then.

 

It barely occurred to her to think of him, these days. He was gone, ash in the wind surely.

 

Now that terrified her more than the memory of him that slipped through her dreams: his hands on her, the pain his words wrought by both command and insinuation, or even the people who unconsciously parroted back his thoughts at her here in her home. He had been larger than life - Father's and at time her own - and now he was erased.

 

Would that happen to them all?

 

Or, would she later remember this time later as just another period of fear passed by.

 

She stepped into the hallway to begin a day anew and shut her door soundly. Hopefully it would contain these thoughts inside for the remainder of the day.

 

*

 

The dreams had gotten worse in the nearly two moons since the Dragon Queen’s visit. Perhaps it was knowing the dragons so intimately? They seemed to pull his mind North and the heavy hot breath of the beasts now punctuated his dreams of what might come. He slept, but didn’t know if he truly rested. Surely closed eyes in the darkness could not count if he spent more time running, moving, buffeted by the brutal North winds, and terrified, then he did in the light.

And so, as the day waned so did he. After supper concluded, he prepared for another night. He grew cold just thinking on it. He and Sansa traversed their usual route from the Great Hall, with Walder in their wake. But she turned too soon, and gestured that he might follow.

“Sansa, I’m quite ready to retire.”

“Bran, indulge me please. Just a bit? I’d like to spend some time together not seeing to our duties.”

 

They saw each other regularly, most nights at dinner and then often afterwards as they tried to run Winterfell in the King and Queen’s absence, but there was just so much to do and often their conversations were no more personal than one might have with a steward. The influx of wildlings and small folks required increased mediation between conflicts, and correspondence on behalf of the King seemed to eat through his days. He took some of the precious daylight hours to sit out in the Godswood with either Jojen or Meera.

 

And he slept more than he used to.

 

He assented, and bit the inside of his cheek, hoping to jolt his body away from its exhaustion.

She was carrying a bag, he noticed. He wondered what was inside. He followed her, surprised when she directed him to the door leading to the yard. It appeared, one of the items in her bag was a blanket, which she deposited on his lap, and a cloak for herself. She ducked her head out, and once she returned inside, the halo of snow caught in her hair told him Walder would have to carry him to their destination, wherever it might be.

 

The wind stole any words Sansa might have offered on the journey, and his exclamation of surprise, as they entered the passage that could only lead down to the hot springs below Winterfell.

 

He hadn’t been there in years.

 

Since before he fell.

 

As they descended down, it felt like walking into the past. The warm, wet air was a memory from a different season, and if he squinted, the woman before him could have been Mother, leading them to the family pools.

 

They reached the hot springs’ edge and he spied, that of all things, an old chair had been placed in the water.

 

Sansa looked up, beyond him.

 

“Thank you, Walder. If you might set Bran down there,” she pointed to the ground, where she had laid a blanket, “and leave us for at least an hour, I would be much obliged.”

 

Walder agreed. He thought about objecting, he was trapped here without the man. Sansa was tall, and he knew her ladylike bearing concealed hidden strength, but he highly doubted she could carry him up the winding stairs they had just descended.

 

But, he held his tongue. Sansa had put a great deal of foreplanning into this evening. He wished to see her purpose.

 

He sat, and she stood in silence, as Walder’s footsteps grew distant. Summer batted at the water, intrigued.

 

“We’ve both been so busy, and tired. I thought we needed a night away,” Sansa began.

 

“And it’s so busy in Winterfell. There seems few places to find a measure of peace right now,” he added.

 

“With the tight quarters and new visitors, I’ve noticed a bit of a smell, to be honest.” Sansa’s lip curled up in trace of disgust, and he hid a grin at her revulsion. “The public hot springs have been an important place for washing, but they are ever so crowded. I intend to open the family pools up as well. I thought we should come to them alone, once more, before I did so.”

 

“Do you remember, coming as a child with Mother?” He asked.

 

“She was very determined we all love the water, and swim as well as she. And she hated how cold the lake in the Godswood was, even in summer.”

 

“I haven’t been down here since she left.”

 

Sansa started a bit, then offered a steady nod. “High past time then. Well, off with your clothes.”

 

“What?”

 

“Do you intend to wear wool in the warm water? That’s foolish. I would ask you keep your small clothes on.”

 

She was wearing a dress that had been Mother’s, one of a more Southron style, that tied in the front. She began to undo her own laces.

 

“Sansa.” His voice sounded a bit strangled with the word.

 

She levied a judgmental look at him.

 

“I have a night rail on beneath my gown, and I brought a dry version for the walk back, as well as a set of smallclothes breeches and undertunic for you as well.”

 

“Its not particularly proper.”

 

She sighed. “It would do us both well to be warm for a bit.”

 

He didn’t truly care about propriety. No one would notice. If they did, likely, they’d hardly care. They would first have to think of him as a man, to be scandalized that he went swimming in his small clothes with his grown sister, a mental leap it often seemed was beyond the ken of those he dealt with.

 

“Its just, well, with inactivity, things wither...” He confessed and looked down. He wasn’t sure he wanted her to see.

 

She stood before him in just her linen shift, gave a small knowing smile and told him, “I don’t think any of us are unmarked from the last few years.” She squared her shoulders, ordered, “Trousers off,” and turned to offer him some privacy and secure her hair atop her head

 

He could see a silver scar peaking up above the shift along her shoulder blades, and did as he was told.

 

It was an awkward dance, made possible only by the fact that Sansa’s height matched his own, but she was successfully able to deposit him in the chair in the water.

 

It was wonderful. Worth any indignity. He felt warm, his limbs light, and his body his own in a way they hadn’t in years.

 

“Did you see the letter from Jon?” She asked.

 

He had. Honestly, there wasn’t much new there. He knew the final battle was nigh.

 

“I did. His post script was so small, as if it contained something secret.”

 

At the end of the letter bearing a status update to Winterfell were tiny, cramped letters, with which Jon wished himself and Sansa safety, peace, and love and bid them to share it with the others.

 

“I think he felt guilty, being able to offer such a message when his men cannot.” Sansa responded. She brought her arms tight around her chest, and quietly shared, “I worry about him, and the King and Arya. How could they even think to survive?”

 

“Arya is stubborn, more than even the Night King. Robb’s entire adulthood has been one improbable military victory after another, and Jon, Jon’s been preparing for this conflict longer than any of us. Just hold those thoughts tight.”

 

Sansa shook her head – more than a nod – as if to dislodge the thoughts he couldn’t see.

 

“I didn’t bring you down here to talk about fear or the war. Let’s speak on good things.” She decreed. But then a few beats of silence descended, as they searched for what might qualify.

 

“I took your advice,” he offered.

 

“Good, more people ought to. Which advice?”

 

“I spoke with Meera.” He saw Sansa hold her breath. “She said she liked babies…but she liked me better.”

 

“Oh Bran, I’m so happy for you.” He blushed at remembering what had come after: Meera crawling into his lap in the chair, and hard kisses beneath the eyes of the Heart Tree. She saw his flush. “That was brave, and it’s so good. I think you’ll be good together.”

 

“I hope.” He wanted long days with Meera beside him as he pushed his chair forward in the wolfswood, or side-by-side the library, or sitting, with Meera in his lap.

 

“I think you will be happy together. You won’t need children,” Sansa offered. “The Queen will give birth soon. King Robb will be a father and you, a favorite uncle.”

 

They sit, the warm water soaking into their bones, and he thinks about the babies due to arrive soon, and their tufts of brown and red hair, that he had glimpsed in one of his so uncommon pleasant dreams.

 

Sansa is looking into the water’s depths, as if she could find a truth hidden there.

 

“You know,” he offers, “once the war is over, there will be many children without mothers. Perhaps…” He let her finish the thought. “Sometimes, one must just try new approaches.” He smirked at her, and ducked a flick of water she sent his way.

 

“You would be good at it. Caring for children.”

 

“Perhaps,” she repeated back. “But there’s too much to do in the meantime. Now, tell me everything Meera said!”

 

 

*

 

_Dear Rickon,_ __  
Thank you so much for your last letter. I'm so proud of you! It really speaks to the effort you are putting into your studies for the Maester to offer such praise. I know you prefer more active pursuits, but a solid education is so important.  It opens up the world. I think you could do anything with a sword in one hand and a book in another.  
  
Lady Wynafryd writes that you have taken on the task of looking after the younger children also staying at White Harbor, comforting the homesick and staying the hands of those whose anxiety makes them angry. She says you are responsible for setting the tone of the youth resettled there. Your actions are brave, mature, and kind.  I remember how Father always took time and care with regards his relationships with his bannermen, and I see that reflected in you. He would be so proud to see how you are caring for our people. And Mother, she took care of her siblings throughout her childhood. She would know how hard it can be, and would so value your actions.    
  
Though White Harbor is the right place for you, and I am needed in Winterfell now, let it not be a secret how much I miss you, and Shaggy as well. I treasure the time we spent at Moat Cailin.  I regularly think back on our walks through the woods there or our trips to feed Florian and Jonquil.

_Winterfell might seem quite changed, now.  I don't know what you would think.  On the one hand, it is quite full, which I know you disliked, but the keep, bursting at its seams with folk, small and free, make it nothing like court.  Bran and I are often busy looking after the many people at Winterfell.  He has done so well seeing to petitioners and conflicts from our visitors with Maester Luwin while His Grace is at the front, and Her Grace is laid up.  She is due to give birth any day.  Hopefully my next letter will contain good news._

_Until then, know I love you, now and always.  Continue always to be as you are, brave, smart, strong, and kind._

_Love,_

_Your sister, Sansa_

*

It was soon. Perhaps not tomorrow, but after months, years really, of skirmishes with the Others, and as all of Westeros gathered in the North it seemed, they had finally reached the point of a grand battle.

It seemed laughable, she thought in moments of the darkness, that they could survive.

She knew what it meant to fail. Bran had confessed his fears a few times before she rode North. But would they be enough?

Smalljon was riding out to their left flank come sunrise. She’d assumed that they would sleep together this night. Why bother waiting for a marriage ceremony when they all might be dead in a day?

Or worse.

But, she hadn’t wanted to – had just wanted to feel warm, safe, and secure – and he hadn’t asked.

She had bade him stay, however, and his large frame was compressed on her cot, snoring quietly. Her right hand rested on his heart, rising with each breath. Her left reached down to tangle in Nymeria’s fur.

She closed her eyes, and breathed in time with them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, work reared its head. Enjoy!


	28. Jon, Sansa

Dragon sat next to him, waiting for him to climb up onto its back. Dragon was impatient to get into the sky, but he tried to still the beast with his hand. Dragon would wait, a little. He supposed that was all he needed. The battle was coming soon.

 

He hadn’t really truly believed what the letter had said when it arrived, unsigned, declaring him to be the son of Aunt Lyanna and King Rhaegar. Robb and Sansa’s letters helped him even bend his mind around the idea, as they posited their ideas of what Fath – Uncle Ned – might have been thinking were the letter true.

 

Even Lord Howland’s words, when he arrived with the crannogmen, which included whispered tales of the place of his birth didn’t fully convince his heart, though it did his head.

 

Then the Queen in the South rode North with three dragons. He knew, when he met them – from the beat of their wings to the pump of their heart. In some ways it reminded him of Ghost, but that wasn’t quite right. Ghost was a part of him; his soul in two places at once. Dragon merely deigned to share its mind and its fire.

 

Dragons were different from direwolves. They didn’t have a pack. They didn’t have identities that they shared. The Queen, call me Daenerys, had named her dragons and to her, they were her children. She rode the one she called Drogon and Viserion had flow away yesterday evening with the fading light – intent on some other purpose.

 

He rode the one she called Rhaegal, after his father.

 

He didn’t tell her that dragons rejected her names for them, that they thought of themselves each only as Dragon. That would be cruel.  Its too important to have a pack.

 

The dragons were a bit, well cruel wasn’t the right word, cold-blooded perhaps? Ironic, given their fire. But, he was of the North and lived on the Wall. He could handle cold.

 

Daenerys arrived and gave him sharp head nod. They were to begin. He began to pull himself up. Perhaps this would be it, the final battle. Man and fire and dragonglass against the dead.

 

He had done this multiple times at this point, but each flight he felt naked without Ghost and Longclaw at his side. Direwolves couldn’t fly and Valyrian steel too rare to be wasted on a soldier in flight. He entrusted Longclaw to Edd, who had become one of his right hand men since he was elected Lord Commander. Ghost, he bid to join Nymeria, and look after their sisters.

 

Dragon took flight and they hovered above the armies below. They seemed so small from the air. He breathed deep and began to bid the Gods to watch over them all: Robb, Edd, Arya, Sam, Sansa, Tormund, Bran, Daenerys, Rickon…

 

*

 

“Sansa,” Bran approached, pushing his chair to meet her, where she was planning how to stretch Winterfell’s stores to feed it growing population. Numbers had never been her forte, but she didn’t believe her inability to make the sums work was her own failure in this case. Though, if King Robb and the armies assembled were not successful, her work here would mean little.

“Sansa,” he repeated, “sometimes you dream of flying.”

It was such an odd statement, that she set down the ledger to look at him directly.

“Pardon?”

“At night, sometimes you dream of flying.”

“Yes, but Maester Roan says that is quite common.”

“Perhaps,” Bran’s lips twitched up. “But most people don’t dream they are birds. You do, don’t you.”

“I don’t understand why it matters how I fly in my dreams. They are just idle fantasies.”

“No, they’re not. They’re like wolf dreams.”

She stiffened. “I’m not like you all. I don’t have those.”

“I think you do, just with birds. You just don’t know, because birds are hard and they aren’t always with you, like Summer, Shaggy, Nymeria, or Grey Wind.”

“Do you – skinchange – into birds as well? She stared down at Summer and began to imagine a whole menagerie.

He ignored her question.

“The wildfire, we need to know where to set it to stop the wights.” She shuddered involuntarily. “We’ll have to find a different way to see from the sky. They’re coming too fast, and too many angles of attack. I can’t do it alone. I need help. “

“I don’t really know how.”

“I’ll guide you. You can do this Sansa. You have already, and we need you.”

“Can we do it here?” She waived her hand around the Queen’s solar, which was the least magical seeming room she’d ever seen.

“Its easier at the weirwood.” She let the idea settle in for a moment, then stood.

“Lead on.”

They traveled in silence until Walder found them. His simple, “Yes,” in response to Bran’s request for help in the Godswood was the only sound to punctuate her swirling thoughts of Lady, powerful wings, strong eyesight, and Moat Cailin from the skies.

Walder set Bran down against the base of the tree and she joined him there in the weak afternoon sunlight. He grasped her hand and leaned back against the trunk.

“Close your eyes and reach out. Find a bird and settle in.”

For several minutes all she felt was fear and her all too rapid breathing.

But then, she was flying.

*

 

She watched the six retreating figures until they passed through the gates, silhouetted by the rising sun. Four men and two women, all of whom had seen at least sixty name days. They had survived childbirth, wars, and winter, but she was sending them all to their deaths.

 

They knew. They had volunteered. She would never forget their faces.

 

Yesterday, once she and Bran had awoken in the Godswood, having discovered where to place the wildfire, she'd known it would come to this. Bran had fallen asleep almost immediately. He had seemed exhausted for weeks, month. She wondered, now, how much time he had spent skinchanging recently. When he'd been in the Godswood, she'd thought he'd been spending time with Lord Jojen, or courting Lady Meera, but now that seemed such a foolish assumption. He'd been flying.

 

She, on the other hand, had felt invigorated by the act of wholly giving herself over to the bird, of gliding over the North, over the stark landscape. The feeling had dissipated slightly, when she stepped into the hall, and saw all the people she was responsible for saving. She wondered which ones she was going to condemn to death.

 

She found Glennis, knitting children's sweaters to supplement the furs everyone clung to, and asked her to follow to the solar. Glennis had known everyone in Wintertown and her behavior had not changed once she was within Winterfell. As they settled in, she thought how Glennis’s hair tied upon her head looked like the snow piling outside.

 

"I need six volunteers to go with our forces to set the wildfire tomorrow at first light. They will remain and ignite it. I don't see how they could return. Can you enquire for volunteers for me? I feel if I were to do so, it might seem a command."

 

"The wildfire will work?"

 

"Winterfell depends on it. I would prefer if the volunteers have families here. It seems easier to give yourself up, knowing you are saving your family."

 

That was why she was sending six, not two. When the terror struck, and it would, one could flee, or flight his compatriots, and still leave one with a match. The lives of everyone within Winterfell’s walls depended on their success.

 

"I will have volunteers in three hours."

 

She did. Nearly 30 people stood before her in the glowing firelight. She sent away those who were young. If they survived the battle, they would be desperately needed to rebuild the North. She did not send away the older women, though a voice in the crowd bayed her to do so.

 

Looking over the gray and white heads she said, "There is a great bravery in doing what is needed, despite your fear. You willingness speaks to why the North will survive. Your children, and grandchildren will survive because of your sacrifice. The King and Queen, and the North will remember."

 

They drew lots and Gods chose the six. They had one night to say their goodbyes. Now, she had sent them to die.

 

She startled to see Walder, Bran, and Jojen, dressed in their heaviest furs, and quietly aiming to slip out the gate.

 

"Bran," she called out. “Stop. Where are you going?”

 

Bran gestured to Walder to hold and she approached. Jojen kept walking away.

 

“Sansa, we have to go.”

 

“Go where? It’s insanely dangerous out there. The messages from our forces indicate that the army of the dead is converging on Winterfell. The wildfire is off to be set. The final battle will be in the next few days.”

 

“I know - that’s why we have to go. To get closer to the dragons and the battle.”

 

“What?”

 

“I have to go help. Help guide the dragon. You know I can.” She froze, thinking of the pair of them laying against the weirwood, bark sticking into their backs and simultaneously covered in feathers, and imaged leathery giant wing beating, heavy beside them.

 

“And you’re all in agreement?”

 

“Yes. This is important. This is what we have to do.” Bran looked small perched on Walder’s shoulders. He wanted to leave Winterfell’s warmth and relative safety. If something happened to his companions, he would be stuck, left to die of the Others, the dead, or even the North’s most ancient enemy, the cold.

 

“Then let me go with you and help. I can do it. I did it with birds. It wasn’t hard. I can do a dragon.” Bran gave her a searching look, then a faint smile.

 

“You could do a dragon. But no, you’re needed here.”

 

“What, no. I can go with you, help keep you safe. You’re already exhausted.”

 

“No Sansa. You must be here.”

 

“There will be nothing to administer if the dragons don’t succeed.”

 

“Sansa, there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” Her hands, which had been fretting, stilled.

 

“Queen Alys is here.”

 

“Sansa. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.”

 

They stared at each other several beats.

 

“Go. Be brave. Do what you must. Know I love you. I’m proud of you.” She told him.

 

He bent down, taller than her when perched on Walder’s shoulders, and kissed her forehead. She held the back of his head for several moments, as the breathed in time.

 

“All the same. Sansa, all the same.” He told her as he pulled away. She nodded. Walder began to follow the retreating Jojen. Summer was still paused before her. She bent down, until she was eye to eye with the direwolf.

 

“Keep him as safe as you can. Come home.” She pet his head, and then he was off as well.

 

She turned to return to the keep. She saw Lady Meera, watching from behind.

 

“Lady Meera.”

 

“He’s not coming back.” Lady Meera stated firmly, but softly.

 

“What?” She responded, slightly panicked at her surety.

 

“Jojen – he’s not coming back. He knew it, and when he asked me to promise to remain here, I did as well. He said it was important I was here. He doesn’t think there’s anything I can do to help, to keep him safe.”

 

“Perhaps you’ll both be wrong. Certainly so many things of which we were positive seem to have by the wayside in the year past.”

 

“Perhaps,” she intoned, uncertain.

 

“Come inside. I could use your help.”


	29. Sansa

To be honest, there was little to do at this point. They had been creating arrows to light for the few remaining soldiers since the letters from the King and Jon. Those talented at the craft remained busy, increasing the stores of protection, but additional hands would offer little.

 

She and Lady Meera walked among the people, ensuring that everyone remained calm. For the brief hours the sun remained in the sky, people kept a lid on their panic, but once the sun went down, the tension in the Great Hall, in the sept, in the hallways, and wherever they tucked people to keep them safe ran high.

 

Then, the plumes of fierce green rose in the distance, visible through the Great Hall’s window. So it had begun.

 

While the wildfire burning gave her comfort: two blockades between the advancing dead and the people around her, it terrified those around her. Shrieks and wails began to ring out, and not only from the children.

 

What was she supposed to do?

 

She met with the soldiers. As she gazed upon her faces, she saw that they knew what she did as well. If the walls were breeched, they could not hold Winterfell.

 

It made sense. A fully armed Winterfell would have required so many men. Men desperately needed to keep the Others and the dead advancing. They couldn’t move every person in the North south of Winterfell, and every unprotected man, woman, or child was a potential recruit in the army of the dead. There would be so many, Winterfell would necessarily fall, even with a full complement of forces. By placing the too scare soldiers at the front lines, they had reduced the threat from the army of the dead.

 

But now, a forward battalion of the dead and several of the Others marched on her home.   She remembered gazing down upon them from the sky. Her rapid heartbeat not out of place even in her own body as she thought upon them with fear. Arya, King Robb, Jon, Uncle Brynden, the men from the North, the free folk, the men from the Riverlands, the men from the Reach, the men who had traveled from Essos, they all might win their grand battle, might win the war, and still Winterfell could fall.

 

At this point, they would die, or they would not.

 

When they had made that plan, staffing the front lines with all the dragonglass, Valyrian steel, and nearly all the men they had, they hadn’t expected that several of the White Walks would slip through and recruit an army of wights on the march South.

 

“Tonight, you will fight. You will fight for yourself. You will fight for everyone within these walls. Each of us, from the Queen to the youngest babe relies on you. But more than that, you will fight for our brothers and sisters, our allies new and old, who a battle in concert with you at the front lines. A victory here protects them and is worth just as much as one on the front lines. It prevents a two pronged attack and a new front further South.

 

“You fight for all the North. In fact, you fight for everyone, even those who have never been beyond the Neck, those who do not even know of the battle we face. You fight so any man, woman, or child might see spring again.”

 

The men cheered, but the sound was swallowed by the wind.

 

“Winterfell must not fall. They must not breach the gates. Focus the fire – your fire – on the Others.”

 

And at this point there was nothing more she could do. The world was terrible and terrifying. She wasn’t good with a bow, and hadn’t practiced making arrows. Her presence there would just distract. She bid them good luck, and returned to the Great Hall. Inside was a cacophony of anxious sounds.

 

She couldn’t fight. But she knew how to smile and continue through the fear and sadness. She was well practiced after many years.

 

And she knew what to do during a battle, while wildfire blazed around then, and they wondered if an oncoming army would breach their walls.

 

So, she began to sing. She began with the folk song “The Miller’s Daughter.” It was popular and upbeat, and full of shouted interjections for those unable to carry the tune. By the second verse, a number of voices had joined in, and the wails had quieted. The fear was still there of course, but with each refrain of “I loved the miller’s daughter, loved her good and true. I loved the miller’s daughter, why did she love you?” it beat down the panic.

 

They sang, and sang. The North lacked the religious hymns one might sing to the Seven – the Old God’s didn’t need or want that – but long cold nights stuck inside made for an exceptionally full canon otherwise.

 

She walked around, making sure everyone corner of the room felt as calm as one could be in this situation. She envied the children she saw, wrapped in their mother’s arms. She wished hers was here. She wished they were all tucked into Father’s bed, as they had done during a few storms, when the winds were high. She remembered the last time: Rickon in Mother’s arms, asleep after feeding; Bran in Father’s lap; Robb, Arya, herself, and even Jon tucked beneath the furs. When Rickon fussed, Mother would sing.

 

She realized no one had joined her on this particular lullaby. Her voice carried, loud and sure through the nearly silent hall. Of course, she realized, it was a Riverlands tune. But no one seemed to mind its origin, as it promised, “hush little babe, and don’t you fear, the river will wash away your tears, and tomorrow the bank will wake afresh, and the day will be our very best.”

 

The child beside her had even ceased her crying.

 

She continued with another lullaby. She remembered Father’s rough voice quietly crooning it to Arya, and whispering that Arya should not wake her sister. The Great Hall joined her again.

 

After several more songs she continued her rounds, through the hallways and into the sept, where she’s placed the mothers with the smallest children, hoping to keep them cocooned in a slightly calmer atmosphere. They sung through a number of lullabies she’d repeated so many times already that night, while her mind intoned her prayers. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, watch over us all. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, protect Robb, Jon, Bran, and Arya. Gentle Mother, font of mercy, bring the dawn. Old Gods, protect us from an ancient enemy. Old Gods, spare us wrath and destruction. Old Gods, bring the spring.

 

As she headed back to the Great Hall to begin again, she saw Lady Meera watching from the ramparts. She joined her.

 

“Lady Meera, are you cold?

 

“No, no, I’m fine. I just couldn’t wait inside. Not while the fighting is out there. I need to keep watch.”

 

“Its hard, the waiting.”

 

“The wildfire was fairly successful. You and Bran did well. Only a few of the dead have reached the walls.” She started down at the dark ground. She could make out skeletons at the base. A fresh wave of hot-cold fear passed through her.

 

“Have they tried to climb?” she asked hurriedly, the studied veneer of calm falling away. Sam had talked about the dead scrambling atop one another to scale walls.

 

“No. Not at all. They’ve focused on the gates.”

 

The dead were here, the dead were here, the dead were here and it was only Winterfell holding them back.

 

“Are you going to stay and watch?” She asked.

 

“Aye. I can’t be inside, pretending this isn’t happening.”

 

She thought. She thought of the people that had gathered in Winterfell’s safety, well over a thousand in numbers, but also of the millions who lay South of Winterfell: at Moat Cailin, in the Neck, in Riverrun, in Highgarden, and even in King’s Landing.

 

“Can you promise something, something hard?”

 

“What?”

 

She stood tall, thinking about the gravity of what she was about to ask. “If they breach the gates, or walls fall, take one of the torches, and set fire to the keep. We’ve placed cords of wood throughout the halls. It was the only place to keep them dry now that the barns are full of people. If the walls fail, we are all dead. Best to make that death final.”

 

“I can. I will.”

 

“Good.” They stood there, both staring into the torches fire and imagining all of Winterfell aflame.

 

“I must return in,” she told Meera. “Be warm.”

 

As she approached the Great Hall, she heard the drinking song and its forced merriment. She breathed deep, and entered the room, joining the refrain.

 

Its was the early hours of the next day, and as she stood in the Great Hall, surrounded by the many people who had taken refuge within Winterfell exhaustion began to catch her. She felt her eyes grow heavy for a few moments.

 

She felt strong, tall, and filled with an inner warmth.

 

She looked down and saw from a height the lands surrounding Winterfell.

 

There was no frenetic heartbeat, as when she had dreamt of flying on a bird’s wing, just a reassuring and languid pump of warmth and gurgle of hot springs. She was also a Tully of Riverrun. Water sustained her.

 

Hold, she thought, as her body enveloped the keep and her arms wrapped around everyone taking refuged. Hold. She would hold. The walls and gates would hold. They would hold for Starks endured.

 

The shouted coda at the end of song startled her awake. She felt surprised to suddenly be so small. But a peace had settled within her.

 

And so the night continued. She moved between the rooms – fingers ghosting along the walls sharing songs and viewing her peoples’s poorly camouflaged terror, as ash fell like winter snow from the sky.

 

Each time she passed Meera, the women would share the new count of the dead outside the walls, until it was unneeded. She could hear the drum beat of their fists and heads against walls, trying to shake the very foundations.

 

She stood as tall as she could, she tried to project an image as proud, brave, serene, and ancient as she could. As she stood, singing among the people beside her, she closed her eyes, and it felt like the voices, and Winterfell itself continued up all the way to the sky.

 

Every time she passed, she heard the dead. They’d felled a tree and sought to hammer down the gate. But they never sought to climb over.

 

And the gate held.

 

And the soldiers fired at the White Walkers.

 

Finally, when seemed the night would stretch into eternity a voice, she wasn’t sure whose, called out. “Princess its dawn, look!”

 

They rushed out into yard, where a faint yellow was breaking over the horizon. The beating had ceased and she scrambled up to the top of the wall. Looking down, the White Walkers had vanished and the dead had collapsed into piles of bone.

 

A voice called from below, “Princess, the Queen is in labor!”


	30. Sansa

The day following the battle was a blur. In retrospect, she could make out the specific instances, but not their order, or really how she moved from place to place.

 

She was with the Queen, who screamed and cried, with pain and terror, a deep immediate fear, somehow so unlike the panic of hundreds fearing for their lives. This was the terror of one, caught in a battle not against the forces of evil, but against her own body. Against a fear that she would fail, as she felt she had failed so many times before.

 

She gripped the Queen’s hand and told her, “Push Alys, push.” And she did, and then a babe’s cry.

 

“You Grace,” Maester Luwin said, offering the Queen a bundle. “It’s a little girl.”

 

She had wisps of brown hair, like her mother’s, and Tully blue eyes. She was beautiful.

 

The Queen looked at her as if she were the world.

 

Then the birth pains began again and it appeared Maester Luwin was correct. Twins. There would be two.

 

She held her niece with her right arm, and gripped the Queen’s hand with her left. The birth seemed so long, and the Queen deeply exhausted.

 

She exhorted her, “Look at your daughter. You can do this. Bring her brother or sister into the world.”

 

The Queen fought fiercely, straining against each contraction. When it seemed like the Queen had nothing left to give, Maester Luwin looked and promised, “I can see the head. The babe takes after her aunt,” he added. “Bright red hair. One more push and the babe is here.”

 

And she was: a babe with red hair and Stark grey eyes.

 

They were handed to their mother, and she quietly retreated, leaving the Queen to her exhausted and joyful tears.

 

Later, or was it before – it was probably before – she stared down from the highest point on the walls with Meera beside there. There were ringed by skeletons. The army of the dead were puppets with their strings cut.

 

“We must burn them,” Meera stated.

 

“Yes. Yes. But we can’t lower the gate. We can’t risk that this is a ruse.”

 

They gathered the strong men who remained, and devised a plan. Several would rappel down the walls. If the dead arose, their rope would be cut. But if they made it down, they would immediately set to building a large fire to cremate these Northern souls who’d been forced to turn against their people.

 

“I’ll go first,” Meera offered.

 

She thought, for a moment to stop her. For Bran’s sake, he clearly loved her. But Bran would understand. He felt the need to act as well. So she only said, “Be safe.”

 

She also walked at several points around the rooms where the Northerners huddled, waiting for news. Where yesterday there had been a barely controlled terror, today was an exhausted confusion and hopeful relief. She told them how brave and proud they should feel. That there was much to do and they knew little, but a victory had been struck. She coordinated dispersal of grain cakes and tried not to think on their dwindling stores.

 

And then there was Robb’s letter. It must have been late in the day, to give the raven time to travel from the Gift, where their forces had succeeded. But she knew that only through deduction.

 

_Dear Sansa,_

_We have succeeded. The White Walkers all appear to have perished, and their army collapsed without them. I pray you are safe and Winterfell has held._

_Jon flew his dragon, and has collapsed into an exhausted, but unharmed sleep. Arya was injured. The Maesters do not know if she will make it. Smalljon is with her, hand on his sword, as if he could fight off her death. I am fine. Jon said something about Bran controlling the third dragon, but I don’t know where or how he is. Jon passed out before we could speak on it._

_Queen Danearys is fine._

_Tell Alys I am well, and I love her and the babes, and I hope to be home soon._

_Love,_

_Robb_

But, she knew what came last, before the exhaustion of two nights without sleep forced her surrender.

 

She went to check on the Queen and her nieces.

 

“Your Grace,” she greeted.

 

“Sansa, hello.” Queen Alys gave a tired smile as she nursed her youngest.

 

“His Grace wrote. He asked I tell you he is well and he loves you.”

 

“He’s alright? He’s alright!” She nodded and smiled. “Good day. Good day.”

 

The Queen gestured her forward.

 

“Would you like to hold Lyra?” She held the eldest out. “I named her after my mother.” The babe’s blue eyes mirrored hers, before they closed, sleepily. “I couldn’t have done this without you. You handled everything, so I could bring them into the world safely. Thank you.”

 

“It was worth it, they’re beautiful.”

 

“I was wondering, if you might name her sister,” she asked, gesturing to the babe against her breast.

 

The babe really did have a tuft of hair that matched her own, and Mother’s. She tried not to think of Arya, and refused to wonder if she would ever see her own sister again.

 

“It would be an honor.” Her mind blanked out for a moment, until the perfect name came to her.

 

“I had a friend, she traveled with us to King’s Landing and disappeared during the troubles. She was a good Northern girl raised here at Winterfell. Jeyne. It would lovely to honor her memory, in part. But this little one should be her own person. What do you think of the name Jenny?”

 

“Jenny Stark. I like it.” The Queen offered her blessing.

 

She did as well, and Robb would understand.

 

*

 

Information trickled in over the next few days. Their forces had been successful. There were no further sightings of the White Walkers. No one had heard from or seen Bran. Jon had awoken and relayed where the white dragon was last seen. They dispatched some of the few men they had to look for the Prince and dragon. Arya was very ill, but holding on. She had blocked an ice sword with her left arm, after she had been forced to drop a dragonglass dagger. They had been forced to amputate to prevent the corruption from spreading, but the damage from both the blade and the cure might be too much together.

 

It was odd to enter the Queen’s chambers and find her out of bed.  She related the news they had heard, drawing strength from the comforting weight of Lyra in her arms. It felt odd, after months of conversation with Queen Alys on every topic but for the threat and situation facing the North, to provide the most up to date knowledge, shaded by every threat and concern.

 

She had come to think of this room as a place removed, safe somehow from the rest of the world. With the news exhausted, the Queen let them sit in silence, punctuated only by quiet sucking sounds. She brushed the brown hair into order, and breathed in Lyra’s scent of new life.

 

*

 

The men had returned with no companions. But she didn’t need their words to tell her what she already knew. Summer had arrived in the hours before. Bedraggled, but alive, and alone.

 

The men spoke with the utmost kindness. Extensive fire had cleared the grove of trees and with them, thousands of wights. The carcass of the dragon lay stretched out where he had crashed, black blood tears streaked below his eyes where ice spears or arrows had pierced. Viserion’s face reflected back the heart tree’s face, standing before the dragon, the only remaining living thing in the clearing.  The weirwood’s white bark was scorched black and grey by dragonfire, but it lived. At the base were the bones of three men: Walder, so large even in death; Jojen, petite like his crannogmen forefathers; and Bran, tall like a Tully, tall like her.

 

His companion comforted, “Seeing the bones of the wights remaining, I don’t know how he directed the dragon there, but without it, I fear we would have been overrun.”

 

She somehow summoned the right courtesies to thank and dismiss them.

 

She didn’t have to say anything to Meera. She found the other woman in the Godswood and, glimpsing the direwolf beside her, the Lady asked, “They’re gone aren’t they?”

 

Her throat closed with a painful tightness, and she nodded the truth. After several swallow, she ground out, “The were able to return Jojen’s bones.”

 

“I knew, deep in my heart I knew, when they left they wouldn’t return.” Meera stared at her clasped hands. “I think Jojen knew, had seen, his own death, but I had hoped Bran.” Meera trailed off.

 

She kneelt beside Meera, before the weir wood tree, and neither spoke, or acknowledged the other’s tears.

 

That night, Summer’s head in her lap, she began perhaps the hardest letter she’d ever have cause to draft.

 

_Dear Rickon…_


	31. Jon, Sansa

She found him in the weak dawn light. He and Ghost had walked out to check on Dragon. He knew she had spent much of the night negotiating with Robb. It was hard not to burst in and try and argue for peaceful coexistence, but he reminded himself the Night’s Watch takes no part. A small traitorous part of his mind, the part that was raised in the North decried that they remembered.

 

But what exactly?

 

Failures of many preceding generations? The choices of his own? The dragons and Southron armies fighting alongside him for the moon past?

 

Another King who knelt to avoid a field of fire or a North independent?

 

“Queen Daenerys.” He greeted her.

 

“Lord Commander.”

 

“You know what we’ve been discussing.”

 

He almost pretended he did not.

 

“Aye.”

 

“And what do you think?”

 

“Your Grace, you know the Night’s Watch…”

 

“Yes, yes, takes no part. So you’ve told me.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I want to know what you think, not the Night’s Watch.” She looked up at the beast looming over the both of them. “I want to know your perspective, Targaryen to Targaryen.”

 

It was only conscious effort that kept him from starting at the name.

 

He let a silence fall between them. “You know, Maester Aemon once told me that it was a terrible thing, a Targaryen alone in the world.”

 

She froze at his words, letting them hang in the air between them.

 

“The Unsullied fought very valiantly for you. More than I could have imagined. Beyond even the stories. They speak of how you broke their chains, and they chose you.

 

“The men of the Night’s Watch chose me. There is something about that, knowing that it was their action that led me to lead them. It drives me, to live up to their choice. To be worthy of it.

 

“And the North chose Robb and the Starks. Knowing him, and knowing the Starks for thousands of years.

 

“I think that choice makes the men who follow stronger, and those that lead wiser.”

 

She let him pause, giving the time to find the words.   He must have sounded a fool, stopping and starting after each thought.

 

“I don’t know how one would tease out the rightful ruler of the North based on law and precedent – through war and rebellion and pledging allegiance. I’ll leave that to the maesters. What I do know is that choice makes men as a whole better. I know the North, and their fierce independence. Which I’m sure you’ve been told of, many times.

 

“What I am willing to guess you do not know is what the North is. Yes, it is independence, and endurance, and stubbornness. But, it is also hospitality, and friendship, and deep reliance on each other. That’s how, for thousands of years, the North has endured winters such as this.

 

“I won’t tell you what to do, and the Night’s Watch will serve the realm, the realm of man not one particular ruler, but consider what benefits choice might render. And don’t discount the value of a friend.”

 

He bent down to see to Ghost, and to give her time to think.

 

“You know, your cousin said something similar.” She responded.

 

“Oh, did Robb?”

 

“Well, he did as well, amid dueling claims of right and fealty, but I met your cousin, Princess Sansa.”

 

He let out a chuckle. “Northern independence is deeply held – and not just by those raised in Winterfell.”

 

She gazed out of the white horizon, sure to be blinding soon.

 

“I’ve agreed to allow the North to remain an independent kingdom. Dragons are made for fire, not ice. I’ve no desire to sacrifice more of my children to this land.” Dragon huffed beside him, in response to her rising emotions.

 

She echoed it, with a hard breath out her nose. He wondered, idly, if she knew she acted like the dragons. He thought she might like that.

 

“Your cousin made promises on your behalf.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“That you would publically forswear any claim on the throne.”

 

“I have already done so, and would certainly do it again.”

 

“That you would never use the name Targaryen.”

 

“Snow has served me well.”

 

“Good. Good.” For a Queen, a woman who rode dragons and had helped defeat a nightmare, she suddenly looked small.

 

“You know,” he offered, “in the Night’s Watch you don’t marry or have children. The men we fight beside are our brothers. You and I, we fought together.” He smiled at her, and she met it in return.

 

*

 

She didn’t remember when Father returned from the Greyjoy rebellion, but she had heard about it many times. Father riding into the yard. Mother presenting him his new child. She wondered if it felt like this.

 

It couldn’t have looked similar. Winterfell was still full to the brim and everyone had come to see the King. They ought to have had a welcoming feast planned, but they had neither the space, nor the food for such frivolities.

 

The yard stared at the Queen’s arrival beside her and whispered excitement. Under strict orders from Maester Luwin to slowly ease back into castle life, many had not seen Queen Alys in the moons since she was confined to bed. The Queen was eager to return to the regular order of business, and she knew Queen Alys strained against the Maester’s words and her own body’s exhaustion. But, slowly, she’d stepped out into castle life again.

 

She’d watched as the Queen heard and answered petitions each week since the babes had been born.

 

Bran…Bran had taken the task while the Queen was confined to bed and the King absent, but that wouldn’t work now, of course.

 

Slowly, Queen Alys would retake all her duties as Winterfell returned to regular order.

 

“Would you?” the Queen asked, gesturing forward, and she gathered Jenny into her arms.   “They grow heavier every day.”

 

The Queen seemed tense, or maybe she was just tired. It was late in the day.

 

“Not long now,” she offered. “They should arrive very soon.” She looked at the sweet face in her arms and breathed in the scent that seemed to follow babes everywhere. “He’ll be so excited to meet them, I know it.”

 

There was no time for an answer, as the gates began to lift. She handed the babe back to her mother. The Queen would want to present them and turned to watch as the King rode in.

 

He wore no crown on his dark red curls, but there was no question, the man before her was a King.

 

They curtsied, the crowd as one. Even some of the Free Folk seemed to join in.

 

He dismounted his horse, and pulled his gloves off.  King Robb strode directly toward them. She watched as he paused before the Queen, and brought his hand to her cheek. They both bent forward, foreheads meeting. His eyes were closed, as if it were too much.

 

“My King, meet your daughters,” Queen Alys began.

 

He gazed down in wonder, bringing one finger down to trace each of their faces.

 

“They’re beautiful. So small.”

 

“They’re growing well. This is Lyra, and her younger sister Jenny.”

 

“Thank you.” He told his wife, breathlessly. Alys’ answering smile was brilliant.

 

She was almost surprised when he turned to her. It seemed the little family before her, so long apart, should have more time. She began to try and think what the appropriate words would be to greet a returning and victorious King, when he wrapped her in his arms and hugged her tight. It felt warm and secure. No words passed, they just breathed in time, from one moment to the next.

 

The King pulled back and continued his greetings. She turned back the Queen, who wore a look of exhausted contentment.

 

“Can I help?”

 

“Please,” Queen Alys responded, handing her Lyra. “He seemed happy.”

 

“He was, Your Grace.”

 

*

 

She walked purposefully back to her chamber, leaving the King’s solar in her wake. Once the ceremony was dispensed with, she had joined the King, Queen, and their daughters for a little family time in the King’s solar. While His Grace marveled his children, he related the news from the front.

 

It was not all new. Some had been hinted at, in letter or by gossip, but to have the King confirm, made it true.

 

The enemy appeared gone, he promised the concerned faces before him. All hint of them passed away with the killing of the leader they referred to as the Night King. Jon had driven Longclaw into the man or beast when forced to land the dragon. Now, even the Free Folk, familiar with hunting for signs of the Others, could find naught to indicate their presence. His Grace had left half the Northern forces at the front, and the Southron armies would support them, as they slowly, one by one, make their way South. Eastwatch and Shadowtower were gone, so those to the East would make their way back via the Karhold, and those to the West would march through Winterfell on their way to Torrhen’s Square.

 

Not too fast, she reminded herself. Princesses do not run.

 

Arya was doing as well as could be expected, he relayed. She, and the other injured, had been rushed to Last Hearth, while the aftermath of the battles were settled. Those whose conditions permit it, and live South of even Winterfell, were making their way sedately to join them and would arrive in a fortnight. Arya, of course, had demanded to be among the group.

 

She pinched her lips together and forced long even breaths through her nose.

 

Jon was well, King Robb added with a smile. His actions would surely be told in song and story in years to come, but he just seemed happy the battle was done.

 

She knew the directions from the King’s solar to her chambers. She hardly needed her eyes open the whole of the journey.

 

“And the North?” she had ventured to ask, remembering the dragons that had stopped over on their way to the front – and the armies still left within their borders.

 

And so, King Robb, First of His Name, huffed a laugh, and rolled his eyes.

 

“It took some doing, but Queen Daenerys agreed eventually that the North was simply too much work to capture and hold. We made many good arguments – on Northern independence, on right, on fealty, on choice – but honestly, I think it came down to the cold and snow. She seemed more reasonable than Aegon, not willing to reenact the Fields of Fire across half a continent’s worth of lords and smallfolk with her dragons. Meanwhile, her Unsullied and Dothraki hated it, and even those of Westeros, the Reachmen, the Valemen, and those of the Riverlands seemed quite opposed to any decision that required remaining in the North beyond what was necessary to ensure the Army of the Dead was truly defeated. Once we explained that winter had only begun and it would be far worse by the end...”

 

“Of course,” Queen Alys interjected, “the snow drifts have barely begun to form.”

 

“It was decided that borders would remain in place, and we would instead be friends and allies.”

 

“We’re free.” She didn’t mean to whisper it, but it emerged as such.

 

“We are.” He confirmed. “We’ll have to tend the relationship with the South carefully, so long as dragons remain, but, she’s agreed.”

 

Finally, finally she reached her chambers and made it within its confines. She pressed her back against the door as she released her hitching breaths and tears began to fall.

 

*

 

King Robb caught her in the hallway near his solar, as she was off to bed.

 

“Would you join me?” He gestured to the door.

 

She smiled, and joined him before the fire. It had been so long since it had been just the pair of them. The King had been back almost a week, but between the babes and the soldiers, there was so much to do.

 

“I’ve heard a lot about how well you ran the keep with Alys laid up, and how you held everything together. She said it couldn’t have been done without you.” He began.

 

“I just did my best.”

 

“Many spoke about how well you keep the peace during the battle. That you kept the keep all within the walls calm, despite the threat that made men on the battlefield quake with fear.”

 

“I…”

 

“You know,” he spoke over her, “Father would be so proud.”

 

“Robb,” she said breathlessly.

 

“He would.” They sat in silence a moment, and she felt her breath shudder beneath her breast.

 

“Thank you.”

 

She and Robb had always taken after Mother in looks. This was well known. But as she looked at him in the firelight, she could see some of Father in him. Perhaps it was caused by responsibility for the North – a likeness in demeanor if not coloring or shape. The men so often spoke to him of Father, how he was living up to his memory. She supposed he would know.

 

“Alys says you named Jenny.” Robb said, with a smile.

 

“I did.”

 

“It’s a nice name. Alys said it was after Jeyne Poole?”

 

“Among other things. Do you remember, before Bran was born, when Arya was just a babe in arms? Mother would pile us on her bed and remember to us her childhood and tell us stories of the Riverlands. She would sing the lullaby, “River will wash away your tears,” to Arya to calm her, and of the Prince of the Dragonflies…”

 

“And a Riverlands maid named Jenny,” he interrupted.

 

“Aye.” She paused, to give him time on that. “She loved you, so much, and would love your daughters, and would be so proud of you.”

 

“I sent her to the Iron Islands.”

 

“She would have gone willingly, even knowing the outcome, if someone could have promised her children’s safety. I believe that fully.”

 

“But Bran and Arya,” he began.

 

“Arya will recover, and will not let this hold her back in any way. And Bran – you know of his dreams.”

 

He nodded.

 

“I think he knew, more than any of us could, really, what to expect that night, and what would come to pass without his actions. He wanted to be brave and protect us all, and he was. I ache with missing him, but, more than any other loss, it feels worthwhile. She would not hold you to account for that, Robb. She would want you to be happy, love you daughters, and rule well.”

 

*

 

“You just missed her,” Smalljon whispered in lieu of a greeting when she entered the room. He was such a large man, it seemed incongruous for such quiet words to emerge from him mouth. “She just fell asleep.”

 

“Good,” she modulated her voice in line with his own. “Maester Luwin said extra sleep would help her heal faster.”

 

They watched Arya for a moment. Even in sleep, she could see lines of pain and exhaustion on her face. It made her little sister, still so young, look like a woman grown. Pain did that. But, she looked younger than she had yesterday, when she arrived, exhausted and aching. Winterfell was settling back into her bones.

 

“He says she’s out of danger, now. That it’s just a question of healing and relearning. But, I can’t forget.” Smalljon looked at his left hand, gently holding Ayra’s right. His fingers looked inelegant next to Arya’s she thought, and she could see a bit of dirt under the nails. Arya’s were so petite. A rogue thought drifted across her mind, tinged with the golden happy light that seemed to suffuse memories of before, that Arya would have been good at embroidery if she had wanted to.

 

“You know,” Smalljon interrupted her musings on their childhood, guilt in his voice, “I held her down when the maester had to see to her arm.”

 

She hugged her soon to be good brother, and told him, “Thank you. You saw to it that she was able to make it home.”

 

“A part of me wishes she had stayed here.”

 

“She never would have stood for it.”

 

“I know. You should have seen her, on the battlefield – fast and lethal.” He sounded awed by the woman asleep before them. “You should be proud of her.”

 

“I am. I am.” She said with an exhale. At her words he ran his thumb over Arya’s knuckles tracing every peak and valley. It was such a small movement, but so intimate and loving. She shouldn’t be here.

 

“Do you need anything?” She softly enquired.

 

A shake of his head was the only answer.   She stood, brushed Arya’s hair off her forehead so that it wouldn’t be in the way when she awoke, and departed.


	32. Sansa

She was sitting in the Queen’s solar, trying to put the records in order for her review. Tomorrow she planned to update Queen Alys on the status of Winterfell, such that it was. She couldn't help feel a little bashful, as if she had mismanaged to keep, though she knew she had done her best given the constraints. But that did a little to remedy low stores.

 

A knock at the door provided a welcome distraction and she bade entrance. Beth Cassel made a perfunctory curtsy and inquired, "Are you busy Princess?"

 

"It will keep. How are you?"

 

Beth didn't answer, but turned to close the door. She wondered what new problem Beth felt the need to deliver in private. It was almost cruel, but she hoped Beth's own sorrow had brought her here and not some broader disaster. It was hardly five moons since Ser Rodrik had died at the front.

 

But, when Beth turned to face her she bore neither sadness nor studied calm. Beth gave her a secret smile, one she recognized from the recesses of childhood from stolen lemon cakes or secrets kept from the septa. Beth stepped forward and bent almost as if she wished to whisper a secret.

 

“He asked me to marry him!”

 

“Oh Beth, that’s wonderful!” She had heard much about the young man from Beth since returning to Winterfell. Beth discussed him with an intensity as if her recollections would keep him tethered to her and to life until he could return. When she met him, after he arrived at Winterfell with King Robb, she understood. He was a bit plain, but from a good and respectable family, and clearly he was besotted with Beth.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I know, it would be more proper if someone accepted on my behalf. But Father’s gone, and Jory as well.” Beth’s voice quivered for a moment. “So, I accepted his offer myself.”

 

“Good. He clearly loves you.” Her companion’s cheeks pinked.

 

“I know.”

 

“Ser Roderik and Jory would be so happy for you.”

 

“I like to hope so. It just feels good – right. The fighting is done, and now it is time to rebuild.”

 

“We will. But first, have you begun your maiden’s cloak?”

 

“We were just betrothed yesterday!” Beth squealed. “But yes, I’ve at least identified a cloak that will do as a base. There isn’t fresh fabric available now, so an older cloak will have to do.”

 

She smiled at her friend. They’d spoken of their weddings to come so often as children, in a way that seemed bright and divorced from reality. Now, it was messier and they made do, but as she thought of Beth and her betrothed, no less sweet. “Bring it by my quarters this evening. We will put some stiches to it.”

 

*

 

King Robb and Queen Alys had invited her to join them in His Grace’s solar that evening. She had spent many nights in room with the King beside her, discussing what was to be done to hold the newly independent North. There had always been something sterile about those conversations, as they both studiously avoided any discussion that might verge on the emotional.

 

This night was different. Their formal discussion had been brief – she had related some news about the status of the keep and its occupants to the Queen, who was slowly transitioning back into her full role by Maester Luwin’s leave, and His Grace had noted that they were to expect a mix of Vale and Reachmen within the fortnight as the Seven Kingdoms armies slowly continued to return home. The destruction of the port and ships at Eastwatch had forced them all to march the length of the North despite the winter.

 

“Its good, though,” King Robb offered with a smile. “They’ll all go home and tell of snow banks taller than trees, and air so cold that it steals your breath, and the South will never be able to convince its men to invade the North. Our greatest military ally, the winter, is always coming.”

 

Most of the evening, though, was spent remarking on the babes, who at nearly three moons were deemed to be the most beautiful, charming, and captivating children the North had ever seen. She felt a thrill of accomplishment when Lyra settled into her arms easily after feeding and jolt of happy hurt to seen His Grace play peak-a-boo with Jenny. His smile for his daughter looked so much like Father had with Rickon.

 

Queen Alys excused herself to put the children to bed, leaving her along with the King. A satisfied smile rested on his features.

 

"People have noticed how well you ran Winterfell during the war." He offered, once Queen Alys departed.

 

She inclined her head with a smile in response.

 

"It didn't feel well run," she confessed. "Just the best we could do with what was on offer.”

 

He shared her grin. "The front was like that as well. More probably. But we survived. Now it's just a question of the winter." He reached across and squeezed her knee, a touch solid against the threats now past.

 

"The easy part then," she offered, a bit arch. Tonight was not the time for the many threats that remained – hunger and cold chief among them.

 

The King took a deep breath and faced her head on. Or perhaps it was the time to discuss them. He clearly intended to broach a serious topic.

 

"As I said, your efforts have not gone unnoticed. And, you know, you've grown up to look just like Mother, as lovely as she was. I have received an offer for your hand – a good and serious offer."

 

She could hear a rushing through her ears, like the water through the walls at Winterfell, and stilled, waiting for him to continue.

 

"It's befitting your birth and worth. It would make you a very powerful woman in the North. You'd have a position, a great keep, wealth, and the chance for a family of your own."

 

He looked down at the cloth in his hand, covered in Lyra's spittle, and continued, "I know it's been hard for you, especially. And people, conflicted by the changes wrought, have sometimes been cruel. I hope this might put that to rest. And give you your due."

 

"Who?" The word was quiet when it escaped her lips.

 

"Lady of the Dreadfort," he answered. "I know Lord Bolton is older than I'd like, you'd like likely as well, but he's a very important bannermen – wealthy and powerful. He could give you what you deserve. His only remaining child, his natural son, perished in the fight against the Others. He needs a heir and he extended an offer for your hand."

 

He returned his hand to her knee and she was glad. She felt outside herself.

 

"It would be good, I think. Good for you. Good for Lord Bolton to secure succession, and good for House Stark, to tie the Boltons closer to the crown. A good offer."

 

"Yes, very much so." She couldn't think, couldn't couple her emotions to her thoughts. She felt pulled in every direction. "Might I think on it? It's much to consider. Another betrothal."

 

He had looked surprised a bit at her request, but his face quickly resolved into a look or understanding and he assented.

 

"I think I shall turn in as well." Her voice sounded breathy but perhaps it was just that it had to fight through the rushing noise to make it back to her.

 

"Of course, sleep well." He stood when she did, and offered her a kiss, like he had his daughters.

 

Lady of the Dreadfort.

 

To be settled in her own keep, not forever on someone else's sufferance. To have a purpose. To have a child of her own. That happy weight in her arms as the babe surrendered to sleep.

 

All the things she wanted.

 

All that she had known would be hers with the certitude of a girl, and grieved she would never have with the knowledge of a woman.

 

Lady Bolton.

 

Wife of Roose Bolton.

 

He was much older than she, the King had noted. Older than Father, she knew.

 

Perhaps, a small hopeful voice offered, he'll die shortly after you have a babe?

 

But he was hale and healthy. For all that he was older than Father, Father had really been quite young – they all had been so young.

 

He’d had hard words about her when she had been naught to him but his King’s sister. Would they continue once her was her wife? Would it matter?

 

He’d likely give her the children she yearned for. Would he let her raise them as she saw fit? Was it his guidance that had made his natural son the man he was, or the absence of his father in his upbringing?

 

Would it be more terrible to be his wife, than to be alone, she wondered as she reached her room.


	33. Robb, Arya

“Your Grace,” Sansa greeted as she entered his solar and stepped before him, her hands clasped in front. He set the letters to the side and gestured for her to approach.

 

Her face bore a smile, but thumb massaged its mate’s palm, as if it could force something out. He’d thought she’d seem happier, more girlish, after yesterday. She’d have what she wanted. What was her due.

 

Perhaps women simply always feared marriage? Even Alys had swallowed hard when he first entered the quarters the night of their wedding.

 

“Your Grace,” she began again, then closed her eyes. “Robb.”

 

He nodded that she continue.

 

“I know Lord Bolton’s offer is fine one. I’ve heard from you and others that he is a good bannerman. Loyal. Obedient. Smart.”

 

She breathed deep.

 

“But, he is not a good man.

 

“He is cruel with his words, when kindness or simply silence would cost him naught, either taking pleasure, or bearing no concern towards hurting those weaker than he.

 

“He is cruel on the battlefield. I’ve lived among soldiers. I know war is not glory and songs, but just blood and fear and pain. But his actions were so far outside the norm that others remarked on them.

 

“There are customs, even in wartime, to prevent us from descending into barbarism. I know the kind of man who defies them. What that means for their every action. What is says about their nature.”

 

He was hyperaware of his breathing as she spoke, her chest and chin held high.

 

“That they are men at best indifferent to the pain of others. More likely, they are men who take pleasure in it.

 

“Perhaps,” she stuttered to a stop, her previously self assured words ceasing for a moment. Before he could begin to formulate a response, she began again, “but for…” Once more she went quiet, the thought dying uncompleted.

 

“We don’t tar a man with his father’s crimes, but a father should bear some of his son’s.” She intoned. “Worse than Lord Bolton’s own actions, are what his son Ramsey committed. Either a deep negligence or modeled violence and disregard made a monster of a man. None deserve to die at the hands of the Others. To have their body defiled by such magic, but of those who fell, perhaps he did more than most.”

 

She fixed him with a steady gaze.

 

“I will not expose any child of mine to that man as a father.

 

“I will not marry him.”

 

“Sansa,” he said, not knowing what would come after, but she ignored her own name.

 

“I know this is likely my only offer and make this decision aware of what it will mean for my life and station. Refusing him impacts not only me, but my family as well, asking them to support me for perhaps my entire life.

 

“More than that, I know that this match would be good for our family and the North, uniting two great houses and neutering a historical threat. I will do much for my family and the North, but not this.

 

“I’ve been betrothed to a cruel man before, I will not submit to being married to another.”

 

The flood of words ended and she stood before him frozen like ice. Her face was placid as she awaited his response.

 

He didn’t understand. The moment Lord Bolton had come to extend the offer it had seemed a perfect solution to so many issues: settle Sansa, avoid a succession crisis at the Dreadfort, and prevent two other high-born families from joining and threating House Stark.

 

He didn’t know what she meant by the accusations she leveled against the man. Surely Lord Bolton was a bit odd, and he granted her a few tales of his base-born son, now dead and no longer a concern, but nothing that made him wary to extend the offer to his sister. Nothing that might make a woman so reject him.

 

He wondered, as she stared into his eyes, what she would do if he told her she must marry him. Irrespective as his role as monarch and sovereign, was he not also the head of her House? Was it not his duty to see her settled? He’d presented the offer to her as a choice, but he had never foreseen her declining.

 

We’re nearly of a height, he thought idly, as he grasped at how to respond to such a monologue.

 

It would cause offense if the offer was refused. Lord Bolton would be angered and ashamed and extract a political cost.

 

As difficult as it was to find Sansa a husband under present circumstances, it would be nearly impossible is it became known that she declined such an offer.

 

Perhaps he could allay her fears, convince her that her concerns were overblown and certainly not worth squandering such a match.

 

Or, he could simply order her to wed him,

 

But, would Jenny look like Sansa, her own red hair streaming down her back, if one day she came before him to refuse a betrothal?

 

What would he say to his daughter?

 

“I will decline the proposal on your behalf.”

 

Sansa seemed to shrink at the words, her shoulders rounding in on themselves as she exhaled a deep stream of air from her pursed lips.

 

Breathily she said, “Thank you.”

 

She had seemed formidable in the moments before, as she set forth her declaration, chin held high. Now, she stared at his feet.

 

He stepped to meet her, a bare inch taller, and wrapped his arms around her.

 

“Thank you Robb.”

*

 

She began another circuit around the chambers, Nymeria behind her, ready to catch her if she faltered. Simply walking should not seem this difficult. But she felt uneven and exhausted by the barest effort. Maester Luwin attributed it to her injury and weeks abed. He assured her that stamina and methods to compensate for an arm that ended at the elbow would come with time, she just needed patience.

 

This approach simply would not do, but the Maester and Smalljon were terrible nags, so she took to "resting" alone in the late mornings, when she felt most awake and before the pain of the late afternoon set in.

 

The knock at her door was unexpected, and she bade the visitor wait a moment as she rushed over to her bed.

 

When they entered, it wasn't Smalljon, Maester Luwin, or a maid, but Sansa.

 

"You're early." She remarked, "Aren't you usually seeing to chores now?"

 

Sansa gestured toward the chair near her bed, sat, settling stitching across her lap.

 

"The keep, will well, keep. I decided to rest today. Besides, it would be good to see you in the daylight. I've missed you."

 

"I was resting."

 

An eyebrow met her statement. "In shoes?"

 

A traitorous toe had emerged from her blankets. She covered it.

 

Sansa shook her head, did not lecture as she might have expected. "Just don't hurt yourself."

 

"I won't. They coddle me and won’t let me heal and train. So, I’ve tried resting instead.” Eager to find a new topic, she asked, “But, more importantly, you just decided to neglect your duties?" Her voice reflected her incredulity.

 

"I wanted to speak with you. Besides, Queen Alys is resuming more and more of her role. No harm will come to Winterfell if I don't labor today."

 

"So..."

 

Sansa had already pulled out her needle and was adding some work to a decorative border on the large cloth rolled across her lap. With her eyes on her work Sansa stated, "I wanted to tell you that Robb received an offer for my hand."

 

"That's wonderful." She knew her sister yearned to be married and have a family and home of her own.

 

"I declined it."

 

"Oh. Why?"

 

"Lord Bolton would be a poor husband."

 

"He is old?"

 

"And violent and uncaring. Better to remain unmarried."

 

She didn't like him, nor did Nymeria. She wondered what had caused Sansa's steadfast refusal, but didn’t enquire. It couldn’t be a pretty story.

 

The needle stilled and blue eyes met her own. “I know you and Smalljon seem happy and well matched. Has he…ever shown himself to be a bad betrothed?” Her words were tentative, but her look was not.

 

“No, never. I’d stab him if he was.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Do you mean to remain here at Winterfell? I know you said how glad you were to return.”

 

“I think not. There won’t be a role for me. Queen Alys is as keen to return to running her keep as you are to be out of bed and in the yard again.” Sansa fiddled with a stitch, smiling when it was successfully reversed. “I’ll carry Winterfell inside me, instead.”

 

“Where will you go?”

 

“Moat Cailin, I think. There is talk of Rickon remaining in Winterfell, at least until the King and Queen have a boy, but there is still so much to do there. Perhaps its better to have one of our family present, in addition to the castellan.”

 

“I thought you said it was a bit, rough, especially come winter.” To be honest, it had sounded like an adventure she would have yearned for, if she didn’t have her own planned, to start shortly on the other far edge of the North.

 

“Better Moat Cailin than the Dreadfort. Besides, it will only be for a few years. Once Rickon marries I will need to go elsewhere and give his wife a chance to find her own place.”

 

“Rickon? Married? He’s a boy.” She nearly snorted at the idea of her baby brother before a heart tree with some girl.

 

“Bran was a man when he died. It means Rickon’s not far behind. Besides,” Sansa’s grin turned wicked, “the letters inform me he’s more than passing fond of little Lyanna Mormont. He has undertaken several embarrassing tasks to attempt to impress her.”

 

“And when he does, where next?”

 

Sansa’s hand stilled.

 

“I don’t know. Before the war I had hoped that time might make the opportunity for a late match, if passions faded. But the North is left with a surfeit of marriageable ladies, many now heirs in their own right and unburdened by scandal. Not to mention, what others might say if my refusal of Lord Bolton’s hand becomes public.”

 

“Then you’ll come to Last Hearth.”

 

“Arya, surely your husband won’t want…” Sansa began to demure.

 

“Doesn’t matter. I have a few years to convince him. He’ll agree, don’t worry. I won’t need you to absent yourself so some other lady might find her place. An extra person with whom to share the burden will be welcome. Besides, so many of the Free Folk have settled on Umber land. I’ll see to them and you the keep. It will be perfect.”

 

Sansa smiled, “Last Hearth it is.”

 

“If I have any daughters, you’ll be indispensible.”

 

“Someone will have to see to it that the young Princesses of House Umber can curtsy.” She laughed. “It should be a few years yet, likely at least five. The King and Queen won’t want Rickon to marry until either they have a boy, or people begin to worry they will not. If I were Robb, and the Gods bless us with a short winter, I would wait for the wedding until the first of spring. Use it to gather my bannermen and have them re-swear their allegiances as the snows melt. Remind them what the North is, before summer squabbles arise.”

 

“Spring.” She nearly laughed at the idea of it.

 

“Seeing as they will miss out on the opportunity for a royal wedding for their Princess.” Sansa said, pointedly.

 

“I know. What a shame that all of the North cannot descend on Winterfell to see me in a dress! Such a disappointment, that the snows and such concerns, will keep them tied to their homes. However will I survive, without a grand wedding?” She wondered, watching her sister, if eyes could get stuck in such a position. Forced to look at the ceiling and the sky for the rest of one’s life

 

“When do you plan to wed?” Sansa asked.

 

“Three moons from now. Maester Luwin is requiring we wait.   I don’t much want a wedding, but I’d like to be married to Smalljon, I think.”

 

“You will be a beautiful bride, Arya. Though, having watched your betrothed look at you, I don’t know if he’d notice or mind if you wore trousers and a muddied shirt.”

 

“Would you mind, seeing to the maiden’s cloak? I can’t sew, anymore.” She lifted her arm, not that Sansa needed to see it. She found herself doing that, forcing people to look at it, as if maybe it would maybe make more sense through their eyes.

 

Sansa made an entirely un-Princess-like harrumph, and said, “We both know you were never going to sew it, injury or no.”

 

She laughed.

 

Sansa grinned back. “I started it when you were at the front. Just the beginning, but, it would have been very discourteous of you to have put my work to naught, so it seemed best to have it begun.”

 

“Thank you, Sansa.”


	34. Sansa

Her hair gleamed against the dark teal velvet. The color of the fabric was rich and fine, and contrasted with her bright braid. It looked novel, she hadn’t worn anything approaching green in years. It reminded her of Mother. Mother had been partial to this hue - not quite Tully blue, but hinting at a trout underneath.

 

Perhaps she shouldn’t have chosen this fabric. She’d studiously avoided offering any potential offense for years, shying away from any reference to her Southern rivers that combined with her Northern ice. But, by now, she was aware that umbrage would be taken with or without cause. And she wanted to make something beautiful.

 

Nothing too showy, of course. The cut of the dress was traditional Northern style, with no low neck or fancy sleeves in deference to fashion. It would be easy to wear it at Moat Cailin in the years to come. Aside from a glance at the color, more daring than the other options she had considered, it would draw no special attention to distract from the bride, Queen Alys, or the new Princesses.

 

Once it had become clear that a new dress would be necessary to accommodate her further height, she found the choice in fabric was limited. Queen Alys needed the slate grey and Arya the dove. She’d looked down upon the winter slim offerings: fine black wool - boring - and the brown velvet - dull - before making her present choice.

 

It was surreal to think that moons before she had thought it likely they all might die, but she had again taken up dress patterns and regular rhythms. It was offputting in some ways. They knew the degree of threats that could be posed by the world, yet here they were, returning to familiar trappings of life. On the other hand, she was glad. They refused to be defeated by the fear. They could still delight in beautiful things.

 

And she did.

 

The fabric was soft to touch, yielding against the press of her fingertips to the bodice. It trapped the heat and reflected back the light more that a wool might. Her needlework had been careful as well, creating a dress she might wear for years to come. As she looked at her reflection she saw, and felt, a woman truly grown, not just flowered.

 

“What do you think, Summer?” She asked her observer, but received no answer from the sleepy wolf.

 

She removed the gown and set it to the bottom of her trunk, beside the completed maiden’s cloak she had made for Arya. The dress still had nearly two moons to wait, but even if no further time appeared for her to decorate it as she intended, with a direwolf across the breast, she would be appropriately outfitted.

 

As she dressed, she thought of the remaining projects before the wedding. She would need to start Arya’s gown shortly. She’d been waiting as her sister regained some the weight she had sacrificed to fever. But Arya was looking better by the day, and if she waited too long, her sister might argue in favor of donning breeches to go before the heart tree! Rickon might need outfitting too. The Manderly’s would be leaving for Winterfell shortly to bring north many of the children who had sheltered at White Harbor and to attend Arya’s wedding. Lady Wynafryd noted that Rickon was growing even more similar to her in looks. If so, he might outgrow his trousers over the length of the journey.

 

But these would all have to wait. The Tyrell forces were due to arrive today or tomorrow as they made their way from the Wall to the Reach. Hair fixed and properly clothed, she moved to the door to begin the pattern they played out as the repeatedly greeted the Southron forces headed home.

 

“Coming, Summer?”

 

The direwolf was beside her in a flash and they set out for the day.

 

*

“Princess Sansa.”

 

“Ser Loras,” she greeted, smiling to see the man in the halls of the castle. “Are you and your men settled into Winterfell?”

 

“Very much. It is a comfort to be at the castle after long at the front.”

 

“Your actions in defense of the North and Westeros are greatly appreciated.” She remembered the first time she had seen Ser Loras. He had been beautiful and gifted her a rose. It all seemed to be out of a story. Time and the cold had marked his face. He looked more the fearsome warrior than a Knight of Flowers victorious in a joust.

 

“It seemed a fable, or a trick, when we first heard about the threat from the comfort of Highgarden. But, any question of dire situation faded away with one glance at the enemy.”

 

“I know.” She didn’t particularly like to think of that night and felt Summer as a heavy weight against her calves.

 

“I heard some made it as South as Winterfell?”

 

“Indeed. The wights beat on our walls as our few archers loosed flaming arrows at the Others. But the walls, and people, held. It was terrifying. But the way the people of Winterfell, mainly woman and children ill prepared for battle, remained steadfast impressed me beyond the reach of the fear.”

 

“Battle is much the same, Princess.”

 

“It seems a harder challenge without walls interposed between the threat. I applaud your victory. I’ve heard from the King that none of the scouts have seen even the barest hint of the Others.”

 

Ser Loras smiled and his face lighting up, handsome as any she had seen.

 

“King Robb told me upon our arrival that, excepting the Night’s Watch, all the remaining forces would all be departing for Winterfell and then their homes. There seems no question that the Others have been defeated.”

 

Her heart stopped a moment at the implication, that until this declaration, there had been the risk that they were not safe.

 

“I had thought our victory was already clear?”

 

He raised his hand in comfort. “I did not mean to alarm you. It was just soldier’s superstition as we feared that an enemy able to raise the dead might still survive out their apparent defeat at the Battle of the Dawn.”

 

She rested her hand on her chest to quell her heart. “Of course. That is sensible.”

 

She imagined her face still bore the hints of her alarm, as Ser Loras continued, “The transition from war to peace is a challenge. The fear, necessary for survival when the enemy is heavy, doesn’t fade in time with the threat. I’ve known for moons in my mind that it appears that all is well, but believing that come the night is a challenge. We must convince ourselves to live in possibility again.”

 

“I understand. My apologies.” She smoothed out her dress and set her shoulders down.   She thought of placid things: the frozen lake in the Godswood, a quiet candle, or a soft snowflake.

 

“None needed, but please accept mine.”

 

“If you wish. It will be good for the remaining men to make their way home. The North in winter is a banal peril, compared to the Others, but able to be just as deadly.”

 

Ser Loras huffed a laugh. “Please take no offense, but I hope to never see the North in winter again, no matter how beautiful the blue roses.”

 

“None taken. The Northern ice and snows challenge even those born to it. I imagine your heart calls for Highgarden. I have heard much of it’s beauty.”

 

“It does. I was actually just looking for the rookery to send an update to Willas on our progress.”

 

“Of course. Let me take you there. Maester Luwin will have the raven for Highgarden.” He offered her an arm, all courtly grace, as she lead him through the halls. They walked in easy quiet, Ser Loras lost in his own thoughts. She was glad of it, after hot cold rush of fear that had sufficed her body just minutes before.

 

Ser Loras trailed his fingertips along the wall, soaking up its heat. He looked a bit like a little boy, but she couldn’t begrudge him. The weather outside the keep got into your bones.

 

“Warm water from the hot springs beneath Winterfell,” she explained.

 

“Speaking of ravens and rivers, have you had news of Margaery? Has she yet given birth?”

 

“No, but I believe it would still be a bit soon. I wouldn’t worry yet.”

 

He sighed, “I know. It is just that babes are themselves a battlefield. I can’t help but worry, especially after Willis’s wife.”

 

A stutter interrupted her steps. “Oh?”

 

“Elin died in childbirth.”

 

“And the child?” She realized, after the fact, that her question, while perfectly proper in formation, was perhaps asked too forcefully in execution. Ser Loras offered a long, odd look in her direction.

 

“Aelinor was fine, and I’m sure is well on her way to being the most spoiled toddler in all the Reach.”

 

“Good,” she tried to answer lightly. “It is such a tragedy to lose a mother in childbirth, but the loss of the babe as well.” She trailed off at Ser Loras’s nod.

 

“It was quite a blessing from the Seven. I look forward to seeing how she has grown at my return. Willas was smitten from her first day. I can’t imagine him now that she must be talking.”

 

“Lord Willas seemed so proud of his nieces and nephews when we met. I imagine he is a very good father.”

 

After all this time, she was fairly accustomed to stares, but Ser Loras’s gaze now left her feeling examined and discomfited. She hurried him along toward the rookery, while quizzing him on his and his men’s needs, before they continued south later in the week.

 

*

 

Three days after the Reachmen departed Uncle Edmure’s eagerly awaited raven made it to Winterfell. He wrote in short, effusive sentences: Lady Margaery had easily borne him a son. Mother and babe were the picture of health. Little Kermit Tully had his father’s hair and muddy blue eyes that would likely resolve into a brown common among Tyrells. All were delighted by the new addition to their family.

 

She spoke to Lyra about her new cousin as they sat together after supper, but only received an uninterested burp. She suspected the raven she had dispatched immediately upon receipt to Ser Loras, care of House Tallhert, would be met with a decidedly different response. She added the gifts for the babes to her list of sewing tasks to finish by the wedding. Ser Brynden was due with the Tully forces shortly before Arya’s wedding. Though, it occurred to her, she would likely travel with him to Moat Cailin, so perhaps she might finish her own dress first, and complete the little vest and blanket on the road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Keep a look out, I'm planning to post a one-shot in the next week or two, before closing out the final chapter.


	35. Arya, Sansa, Willas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you missed it, there is a one shot that takes place prior to this chapter. "Before the Frost" is the second part in this series and offers a glimpse at what was happening in Highgarden.

She tracked her down to the Godswood. Sansa was sitting against the weirwood, the way Bran used to, Summer’s head in her lap, and a letter in her hand. Maester Luwin had said Sansa had received a letter, and the next sighting of her had been heading to the Godswood, upset.   This must have been the letter to do it.

 

She sat down beside her sister. It wasn’t very smooth, but she’d never been particularly graceful. She would have to figure out how to do that without leaning on Nymeria, however.

 

“Ok, give me that.” She plucked the letter out of Sansa’s hand. She’d sat on Sansa’s left side for this reason.

 

Sansa opened her mouth to object, and then relented, gesturing for her to continue.

 

She read.

 

_Dearest Sansa,_

_I am so happy to hear from Loras of the victory in the North and your survival. I grieve for the loss of your brother. I was so incredibly impressed by Prince Bran when I met him. He showed an intelligence and self-possession that would, and did, humble a man twice his age._

_I cannot imagine your fear the last year. I am sure, knowing you, that you carried it with the upmost dignity and grace, but I wish you were not faced with this challenge._

_I never had a chance to fully thank you for the letter you sent shortly before your brother’s wedding. Without it, I would not have married Elin, or had Aelinor, and my daughter is the most precious thing to me in the world._

_In that letter, you wrote that you offered advice presumptuously. Now it is my turn. I love you. I wish marry you. Come to Highgarden._

_There are many reasons why you may find this foolish. I remain a good deal older than you, and with certain infirmities, though I would not speak ill of them for I know how that makes you feel._

_I have been married and loved another._

_You have fought hard for North and your family, and the Reach is lovely, but far from your home._

_Perhaps you have chosen another yourself._

_If you would deign read further, let me explain my feelings._

_Oberyn Martell, a friend of mine, often told me how love for multiple people does not subtract from, but multiplies the love one has to give. I never understood, and don’t think I would have, but for you and Elin. My love for you, and knowledge of your regard – if not necessarily love – made me brave._

_With it girding my heart, I followed your instructions._

_I knew we could not be together, my King made that impossible, but the knowledge that you were out in the world, thinking well of me, and guiding me, let me cast off my self-imposed shakes and make the family I had deeply yearned for._

_I met Elin. She was sweet and warm and sharp and real, and the bravery you gave me, let me open myself up to loving her too. Without you, I could – would – never have taken that leap. I married her, loved her, and made a child with her._

_As Gods gave me Aelinor, they took Elin. It was impossibly hard, but worth every moment of pain for the joy that came before and since._

_And now the world has changed. Joffrey Waters is gone, and the dragons returned, which you know better than I. The world has changed, but my love has not._

_So I implore you, if you could feel the same. Come to Highgarden and be my wife._

_Even if you were to laugh this suggestion off, I will be forever indebted to you. You made possible the life I relish. If this letter offends, know it was sent only because of my deep regard, which I will carry for the rest of my life._

_Yours,_

_Willas_

“Huh!”

 

*

"So, you’re upset." Arya asked.

 

"I suppose." She didn't want to think about this. She'd come out to the Godswood because she was hoping the whispering of the trees might drown out her rushing thoughts.

 

"What are you upset about?"

 

"I don't..." she began, before Arya interrupted.

 

"You don't know. Ok, fine." Arya huffed, then offered, "You're angry he married someone else while he claims to have been in love with you?"

 

"I can hardly be angry about that. I wrote to him telling him he ought to find a wife and to start a family with her. It could have hardly have been with me, given King Joffrey."

 

"Really?” Arya stared for a moment, before continuing. “You're angry because he claims to have been in love with you for years and never told you."

 

"No, he did not tell me, but had he done so, it would have done little to change the situation. Besides, he wrote to me after His Grace treated with Queen Daenerys. He was married, but he expressed concern over the news from the North and offered to hide Rickon and myself in the Reach at his brother’s keep, despite the remaining threat from the Lannisters."

 

Arya looked surprised at that, but blinked it away, ploughing ahead with her questions.

 

"In that case you're upset because he loves you and you don't love him back."

 

She looked to her hands.

 

“I think…I think maybe I love him in return. I never needed consider the weight of the feelings in that manner. I delighted in his letters, in his attention, and in thinking what I might share with him.” Arya was staring.

 

“I tried not to think about it, or him. Wanting what you cannot have only hurts.”

 

"So, he loves you and you love him. Neither of you are married. He's 'a good match' if you still care about that. Then what?"

 

"The North…I…Rickon..." She said, somewhat incoherently.

 

"Have you not told me that Rickon is nearly a man grown. He will do fine without you physically here. Besides, he loves you and would want you to be happy. Not to mention, were you not present during the several conversations we have had about your return to Moat Cailin, while Rickon would remain here."

 

"Well..."

 

"And if this letter is any indication, it is easy to maintain an exchange of correspondence between Highgarden and Winterfell." She blushed. "Now, Rickon returns in a fortnight. I certainly would not depart before that date, but he's already well on his way. That cannot be the real reason.”

 

"Yes, but I also promised to join you at Last Hearth."

 

"Sansa," Arya reached across and stilled her worrying fingers beneath her own palm. "I love you, and you are forever welcome at Last Hearth, but we both know it will drive you slightly mad. You'll constantly feel I don't run my keep right, but also won’t feel you have a place to instruct me. I can do it. Mother instructed us both, and I watched from you and learned from how well you ran Winterfell. You will always have a place before my heath, but I don't need you there."

 

They sat quietly for a few moments, considering the things confessed, before Arya began again, "If you're upset because you don't feel you have another place to be, that's not true. Obviously, you could live with me, and I think you would find you would always have a place at Moat Cailin, but there are others. I know how much you wanted children, how well you took to raising Rickon, though he was a hellion. If you wanted, you could go to the Mortmonts. Dacey's gone, but her mother and sisters would have you. They would introduce you to a nice bear.

 

"Everyone recognizes how important you were to holding Winterfell together during the war, and before. I suspect others would open their home to you. There may be other, later marriage proposals as we all begin to rebuild.

 

"Is it that you don't want to go all the way to the Reach? You don’t want to leave the North? Or do you not wish to marry him, or at all?"

 

"No. No, I do. I do want to marry Willas. It just might not matter. Yes, King Joffrey's gone, but he was only part of the issue. I just turned down one of King Robb's most important bannermen. I can hardly turn around and leave for the South. You know how they think of the South here. And there's always the risk that they see His Grace as too Southern himself. If I left for Highgarden it would reflect poorly on the King. It could weaken his reign and make it harder for the rest of you."

 

"That doesn't matter.” Arya said sharply, then continued, softer in tone. “I understand why you might feel that way. And maybe those were important concerns before. But, if you choose Willas, than you should have him." Arya said this with such conviction, she wanted to believe her. She wanted to so much.

 

Arya continued, “Robb just led the North to a victory over a villain from our nightmares and convinced the Dragon Queen to recognize the independent North. If his reign can't survive you marrying whomever you want, it wasn't made to last it either way.

 

"I will be fine. Smalljon and I will leave for Last Hearth, at which point I will gleefully leave all of these court maneuvers behind. Rickon won't marry for years, and besides, based on what you’ve told me, little Lyanna will simply declare their betrothal and set the date of the wedding, with him to do little but consent. The Mortmonts certainly won't care whom you marry."

 

"His Grace..."

 

"'His Grace’ will consent."

 

"Arya!"

 

"You love him? You think he would make you happy? You think he would respect you and care for you?"

 

"Yes."

 

“Do you want to go to Highgarden?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Sansa…”

 

“I spent a great deal of time convincing myself that I’d be happy here in North, alone. And I could. I would. Maybe its better just to stay here.”

 

Arya snatched her hand away.

 

“Sansa. No is frightening, and maybe easier. No gives you control. No has clearly been the right choice in the past. Only you know whether it is so here. But no is a choice, just as much as yes. And I think yes can offer even more if it is good. Another kind of love. Companionship. You just have to chose to take it.”

 

She looked at her little sister. Not so little any more.

 

“Yes. I will tell him yes.”

 

"Good.” A wide smile split Arya’s face, and she basked a moment in its shine on the cold and overcast day. “I am so happy for you. Don’t worry about the rest. I'll speak with Robb. Just, be happy."

 

Her voice was tremulous, with emotion, but she knew she spoke the truth, when she replied, “I am.”

 

*

 

The courtyard buzzed with an excited activity. After months in which there seemed nothing but gloom and fear, it was a touch disconcerting to hear so many happy voices and shouts fill the yard. Families who had sent their children to White Harbor for safe-keeping had come from parts North of Winterfell to collect their kin and attend Princess Arya’s wedding.

 

A part of her thrilled at seeing Rickon again. But her heart had already started to ache to think on the words they would share about Bran and her own imminent departure.

 

She heard a sour voice, one of the Bolton bannermen behind her. “I heard that she turned down the Lord of the Dreadfort, a good Northern man, to go bed a bunch of roses. I suppose she never was much of a Stark.”

 

Her eyes did not roll at the words, but only just. Not a Stark. Here she stood, a direwolf at her heels, and some silly minor Lady thought to try and impugn her so.   Some people’s words showed them to be blind. She heard Queen Alys’ voice interject.

 

“Tell me, Lady Turoch, is not true that the North has fought and negotiated for its independence from the Iron Throne?”

 

“Yes, my Queen.”

 

“And is it not true that a lasting peace is best made in the marriage bed?”

 

“Yes, my Queen.”

 

“And am I right to suggest that perhaps Prince Rickon is a bit young to be a consort for Queen Danarerys.”

 

“Quite, my Queen.”

 

“Then perhaps you should think more carefully, before casting aspersions on the ways in which House Stark builds its alliances to keep the North at peace with the South instead of bending the knee.”

 

Chastened, the Lady quietly concluded. “I will, my Queen.”

 

She nearly gawked at the Queen’s words. They were all, completely true. But what they implied was far from the perhaps inadvisable love match they had agreed to. Well, it certainly didn’t do any harm if the people of the North happened to misunderstand the cause of such a betrothal.

 

She couldn’t suppress the giggle.

 

*

 

“Look at you,” she told him, and hugged him tight again.

 

“Sansa, stop,” he moaned. “You already did that yesterday.”

 

“I missed you. And here you come back, looking so grown. After all those moons, I have so many hugs to make up.” She reached around him again, and while his face looked annoyed for a moment, the smirk highlighting his spots, he squeezed, and bent his forehead toward him. Somehow, her littlest brother reached her nose now.

 

“How are you feeling now?” Last night, their first reunited, Robb had gathered them all in his solar. Queen Alys and Smalljon saw to themselves that evening, and siblings spoke of their absent member. Rickon had grown quiet, before excusing himself after only an hour, his words clipped and his voice tight. It was good to have some time alone together, as they hid out in her bedroom.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just, can’t believe he’s gone.”

 

“I know, I know.” He was looking down, shamefaced, watching the floor. “Its one thing,” she told him, “to know someone’s gone, but to be the only person around for whom that has meaning. Its another, initially more raw, but quickly, more comfortable, to be able share that loss. We’ve all been together, and talked of Bran, both what he did for us, but also just him. You didn’t have that until now.”

 

“I wish I could have seen him again.”

 

“I do to. He loved hearing about your adventures in White Harbor.”

 

“It hardly seems fair. He couldn’t even stand, and was able to fight the Others, while I was playing at sparring in White Harbor.”

 

“No,” she stated firmly. “I have heard, over and over, how well you held together the many children, alone and frightened in a city far in distance, in many cases culture, from the other keeps of the North. That was important, and I am proud of you and Bran would be proud of you. Don’t lessen his efforts in some comparison just to belittle someone he loved.”

 

In the moment he hung his head. She pushed at his forehead to tip it up to you.

 

“Bran loved you and would be proud of you holding all the children together. I am as well. And so glad to have you here.”

 

“And now you’re going South.”

 

She thought of a little boy crying in her arms and the crypt and told him, “I’m not leaving you, I’m just going to be married.”

 

“I know, I’m not stupid.” He declared. “Lady Wynafryd says it’s a good match.”

 

Lady Wynafryd had travelled to Winterfell with her wards and had caught a few moments to share these sentiments. It seemed queer to hear such words coming from Rickon.

 

“She does does she?”

 

“Yes, she complained that it’s unfair when the Lords are able to make decisions for ladies without being taught the ways of their worlds, and she wouldn’t allow it while I was her responsibility.”

 

“And Arya says I should tell you that you can live at Moat Cailin if you want. That seems obvious, but fine.” She watched as he squared his shoulders and tried to stand straight. “You will always have a place by my hearth,” he intoned, the cracking voice in the middle, belying both his youth and coming manhood.

 

“Oh Rickon.” She gave him a smile that was more tremulous than she would have expected. “That means a great deal. I hope to see you once you are acting as the lord of the castle. You will be quite impressive. But I will go to Highgarden. I want to go there.”

 

“Lady Wynafryd says that Lady of Highgarden is a great honor. She said that it’s important for ladies, and I guess princesses, to have their own place. And that place must usually comes through marriage.”

 

“She’s taught you a lot.”

 

“We spoke of duty much: A Lord’s duty is to his bannerman. Bannerman’s to the king. Husband’s to his wife. She thought your marriage would be good for House Stark. That some people would be stupid and upset, but that connections with the most wealthy House in the South could only strengthen independence - especially in winter.”

 

“You know, House Tyrell is sending a royal wedding gift to Arya in the form of bushels of grain.”

 

“And here I thought that dowries were to be paid by the bride’s family.” He quipped.

 

She did roll her eyes at that. “Don’t be smart, Rickon. It’s Arya’s due. But the Tyrells are playing smart politics. Those who eat it won’t care about motivations.”

 

He looked grumpy at that. “So you go South for what: a position, political ties, and wheat?”

 

She suppressed a grin, and leaned in close. “Do you want to know secret?”

 

He nodded.

 

“If others ask, I would politely suggest yes; that it’s duty and honor and family. But,” she bit her lip, and let her face reflect her feelings a moment, “it’s not about any of that, really. It’s about Willas. I don’t want to leave, but I want to go. I want to be with him.”

 

“Ew, Sansa.”

 

“Don’t be juvenile. We wrote each other, before. It was intended to facilitate the marriage between his sister and Uncle Edmure, but it grew to mean more than that to both of us.”

 

“I suppose that’s all right, then. He seemed fine when he visited. He liked Shaggy.”

 

“I’m glad you approve.”

 

“I just want you to be happy. I do wish you weren’t leaving, though.”

 

“I know. I wish I could have you, and Arya, and Robb, and Alys, and the girls close as well as Willas. We shall just have to make due with ravens however. You’ll actually have to write me back and not depend on Ladies Wylla and Wynafryd to do so.”

 

“I promise.”

 

Rickon looked subdued. She understood. Life had always been a tumult for Rickon, he didn’t have the memories of endless halcyon summer days with five siblings and two parents to bolster him through times of change. For Rickon, life was always changing, and usually for ill.

 

“I made you something.”

 

“More clothes?”

 

She peaked at the ankle showing below his pant leg. “No, though you need them. Lady Wynafryd was shocked at how much you grew on the journey home. It’s this.”

 

She hefted the heavy cylinder of fabric up off the floor, but when Rickon took it from her hands he acted as if its weight was inconsequential. Those hours in the training yard had paid off.

 

Rickon gently laid it upon her bed behind them, and unrolled the fabric to reveal the embroidery below.

 

“I bought the supplies in White Harbor and created it at Moat Cailin and Winterfell,” she told him as the scene emerged with every roll of the fabric. “All your important places.”

 

There was the trout in the pond, though of course no fish really lived in the heated waters. Now the heart tree was displayed at the center of the tapestry, with a face more loving and familiar than frightening. She had stared at it long and hard as she embroidered, attempting to fix this image in her mind over the terrifying picture of a head on a pike. And, all around, six direwolves played.

 

Rickon was silent as he stared down.

 

“Its us, our family,” she explained, in case he didn’t understand.

 

His eyes fixed on the embroidery before him, he noted, “Lady is playing with Shaggy.” The live direwolf behind him lifted his head upon hearing his name. She was excited to see she had appropriately captured the direwolf’s likeness.

 

“Of course. I know she would if she were here, and I will always be beside you in spirit.”

 

He spun to face her and pulled her into the tightest hug imaginable. He mumbled against her shoulder, “I love it.”

 

“I’m so glad. It’s slightly smaller than your standard tapestry, so you can always bring it with you. A little reminder of home and family wherever you go, because even when we’re distant or gone,” she reached out and brushed a finger over the image of Summer, “our love is with you.”

 

“I know.” He puffed out a breath against her shoulder and she felt the wetness he had left there.”

 

“I love you, and I’ll miss you, but you won’t really be gone.”

 

“No, just on a new adventure.”

 

_*_

He brushed the dirt off of his left shoe, where he saw it clinging stubbornly, before stepping into Aelinor’s nursery. Septa Sera had said she was happily down for her nap, and he had quietly slipped inside to see to his correspondence while he listened to his little girl’s breaths and mumbled words. She was a baby no longer. He smiled to see her caramel curls create a halo on her pillow.

 

The gardeners had been a bit taken aback by his wild idea, but they prided themselves on their ability to grow anything. The idea had seized him in the middle of the night with a touch of panic.

 

She would need a weirwood tree. For all she kept the Seven, Sansa said she prayed to them before the heart tree. The Reach would be so unfamiliar, especially compared to the North in winter. He would be unfamiliar, he admitted to himself, they had not seen each other in years, and it had been long since their regular correspondence. The least he could do was try to make her a bit at home.

 

The next few days would be the earliest he could expect the next response from Sansa. He pulled her prior letter out of his breast pocket, where he had been keeping it since the first, ecstatic moment received it. He smiled to reread it, and rubbed his thumb over the salutation.

 

_Dearest Willas,_

_Yes._

_Yes, I love you. Yes, I will come to Highgarden. Yes, I will marry you._

_I delighted in your letter. I had so missed your words – any of them. And then, for you to write what you did! Things I would have dreamed to have you say, if my heart had even known it might be possible. You me feel like_

_I am glad you found Elin, truly. She must have been an incredible woman, to attract such love and devotion from you. And Aelinor, what a gift to be given by the Gods. There has been enough sadness, and heavy hearts these last years. All joy should be welcomed._

_Thank you for your words about Bran. I miss him deeply, and don't think the ache will ever fully pass. But I take great comfort in the fact that he was killed protecting him home and family. He felt it was his duty and an honor to fulfill such a role. He chose to go, knowing the risks, and I believe he would make the same even with foreknowledge of the sure outcome._

_Now, knowing you feel as I do, I wish I could sprout wings and fly to you myself, rather than entrust these words to a raven. It seems so long since you last visited Winterfell, and absurd that we must wait any moment longer to reunite. But, as with everything about our courtship, we must remain steadfast with our patience. In a fortnight, Arya will marry her betrothed. I should like to stay and see my sister happily wed. Then I could, would, travel South to you. The final Tully forces and Uncle Brynden will depart Winterfell after the wedding. I could join on their journey South and make my way to Highgarden by way of Riverrun._

_Tell me also of yourself. How are you? How you find this new world we are thrust into? How has the Reach changed, or remained the same? I wish to know everything of Aelinor! What does she like? What does she despise? Might I write her as well?_

_Be well! I shall count every hour until your return letter arrives and every day until we are finally united._

_Yours,_

_Sansa_

_P.S. I hope your menagerie has room for one more. I'm bringing a bit of the North to Highgarden.  Summer, Bran’s direwolf, shall accompany me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for joining me on the journey of this story. You braved an odd story premise, an inconsistent posting schedule, and my apparent inability to easily communicate the passage of time. Thank you for your comments and kudos along the way. They are incredibly inspiring! I hadn't written anything in years, and now there's a novel. Be well!


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